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Book_ J5 4 

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Copyright N° 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 





























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POLLY PREFERRED 


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Polly made a picture that combined the charm of a Bo Peep with the last word from Paris 


Drawing by 

MAGINEL WBIGHT BARNE 
Courtesy of 

COLGATE AND COMPANY 








Polly Preferred 


A Comedy 

Romance of Faith and Salesmanship 

/ 

BY 

GUY BOLTON 


WITH FRONTISPIECE BY 

MAGINEL WRIGHT BARNEY; 



NEW YORK 

THE H. K. FLY COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS 


rs> 


2* 


COPYRIGHT 1923, BY 
The H. K. Fey Company 



MADE IN THE U. S. A. 



©C1A765539 V 


"V 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. In the Automat ........ 9 

II. “A Little Present”.20 

III. “They all want Girls!”. . . . 33 

IV. Miss Pierpont of South Carolina. . 52 

V. The Dawn of a Screen Star. ... 69 

VI. Hungry but Triumphant.83 

VII. Robert Cooley, Man of Affairs. . 96 

VIII. Great Preparations.106 

IX. Selling Shares in Miss Pierpont. . 116 

X. A Devil or an Angel.130 

XI. The Test. ,. 144 

XII. A New Star Rises in the Sky . . . 163 

XIII. Polly Pierpont, Inc.175 

XIV. A String of Pearls.191 

XV. Disaster.210 

XVI. Polly Plays Her Part.228 













6 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 


A Table for Two. 

Moonlight. 

The Slipper Tells the Tale . . 

Upheaval . 

“A Scrap of Paper”. 

Innings. 


. 237 
. 246 
. 260 
. 272 
. 291 
. 304 






POLLY PREFERRED 




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POLLY PREFERRED 


CHAPTER I 

IN THE AUTOMAT 

It was one of Broadway’s two busiest hours—noon. 
At twelve midnight and at twelve midday that 
thoroughfare is thronged. At both hours the throngs 
are seeking food; at midnight they want food, to play 
on, at the midday, to work on. Midnight sees frothy 
gowns and smiling faces and hears the laughter of 
the after-theater crowd. Midday finds the crowd 
sober, hurried, clad for business and preoccupied with 
the pursuit of the elusive dollar. 

On a side street just off the great thoroughfare an 
Automat restaurant was doing its usual thriving noon 
business. Shop girls, stenographers, clerks, the vast 
miscellany of small earners were coming and going in 
jostling numbers, saving both time and cents as they 
dropped their hard-earned nickels into the slot and 
received in return a slab of pie, a sandwich, or a 
portly bun. Waiters hustled through the throng, 
gathering the debris of the hurried feasts, snatching 
dishes almost before they were emptied, casting about 
cheerful impertinences among the lunchers as they 
mingled with them. 

Miss Jimmie, longing for quiet, caught sight of one 
corner table that offered solitude. She wanted to 

9 


10 


POLLY PREFERRED 


read her new motion-picture magazine while she ate. 
Having supplied herself with a sandwich from the slide 
behind the table, and a cup of coffee, she proceeded to 
prop her magazine against her glass of water and 
devour sandwich and film stars both at once. 

The waiter, clattering noisily past with his tray, 
disturbed her solitude. 

“Say!” she cried, looking up at the intruder, “go 
easy when you dump those dishes down the chute, 
won’t you? My nerves ain’t what they was when I 
was young.” And once more her shapely nose was 
buried in the pages. Miss Jimmie was still within the 
boundary lines of those youthful years in which one 
speaks of the time “when I was young” with a sure¬ 
ness of being laughed at. 

“All right, sister,” responded the cheerful waiter. 
“I’ll get Mrs. Automat to line the chute wid swans- 
down.” And he swept his tray kitchenward, followed 
by her retort: 

“Hey! Don’t you go gettin’ new with me! Freshie!” 

Again her eyes glued themselves to the magazine. 
So absorbing had the film world grown, so much more 
real and visible than this mundane sphere of sand¬ 
wiches and pie, that she fumbled absent-mindedly for 
her sandwich, never realizing that she had finished 
the last crumb some time before. 

A crash brought her back to seemingly unreal real¬ 
ities once more, as the dishes and silver were shot 
down the washing chute. This time she jumped until 
the magazine fell, knocking over the glass of water. 

“Oh, for the love of Pete, have a heart I” she cried 


IN THE AUTOMAT 


11 


as she mopped her wet blouse with her orange-colored 
handkerchief. As this became quickly soaked, she 
brought forth another handkerchief, French blue this 
time; followed this with one of deep coral pink. Even 
her favorite invocation hadn’t helped; the love of 
Pete didn’t prevent her blouse from being stained. 

Her plate was empty, she now saw; rising, she shook 
two nickels from a white handkerchief on to the table, 
and with these for ammunition went to the slides and 
began to inspect their possibilities. 

The waiter returned with his empty tray; he was 
picking up Jimmie’s coffee-cup when she reached her 
seat again, a slice of apple pie in her possession. 

“Hey, there! Lay off that coffee!” 

Having rescued the remainder of her coffee from 
destruction, she seated herself comfortably to enjoy 
her pie. 

“The way you dish-snatchers try to sneak away with 
half a fellow’s food is the limit. It’ll take more’n that, 
you know, to make people think this is the Ritz.” 

The waiter lingered, collecting dishes with as much 
clatter as possible. 

“Ho! Who’s been tellin’ you how they act at the 
Ritz?” 

“Is that so !” She withered him with a glance as 
she lifted her cup with what she confidently believed 
to be a Ritz manner, quirking her little finger until it 
made a tendril in the air. 

“Listen here.” She continued the withering pro¬ 
cess. “Being a chorus girl has some advantages. 
Maybe I ain’t a beauty, but I can paint on a good 


12 


POLLY PREFERRED 


enough face to get me a mash note or two from the 
boys that don’t sit no nearer than row J.” She opened 
her vanity bag, took out a mirror the size of a silver 
dollar, a powder puff the size of a half-dolla/, and 
proceeded to adorn herself with dabs of white the size 
of a quarter-dollar on nose and chin. 

At the name of “chorus girl” the waiter’s expres¬ 
sion had changed from genial derision to admiration, 
and an admiration touched by awe. A chorus girl! 
One of those dazzling creatures whom mankind from 
Wall Street to waiterdom adored, who twinkled 
through masculine dreams and glittered ever just 
beyond a ’bus-boy’s reach. A real chorus girl, here 
at his own table, eating pie from the familiar slide 
beside him, eating almost out of his hand, he might 
have said, if he had been of a figurative turn-. 

“What show you in?” he inquired, consumed now 
with curiosity. “The place next door?” 

Jimmie, stuffing in the apple pie until her mouth was 
almost too full for utterance, replied: 

“Uh huh. That’s it. ‘Little Miss Nobody’.” 

“I heard that show was a frost.” 

“And you heard right. There’s icicles hangin’ all 
round the proscenium.” Evidently the fact had not 
spoiled her appetite; she continued vigorous attacks 
upon the pie. 

“No wonder they’re advertisin’ it the coolest place 
in town,” she followed up her own observation. “We’re 
rehearsin’ a new one now, though—a revue.” 

“Gonna be good?” inquired the intrigued waiter. 
He had rested his tray upon a corner of the table; 



IN THE AUTOMAT 


13 


his dishes were forgotten, his entire attention and 
interest were consumed by this conversation with a 
real chorus girl. 

Jimmie had forgiven him his clattering disturbance 
and his freshness, and she now condescended to en¬ 
lighten him. 

“Sure it’s gonna be good. Real class! Begins in 
the Garden of Eden and keeps on gettin’ nakeder and 
nakeder. Now if I could only figger out some way 
to get straight from my bathtub to the theater, I’d 
save myself a lot of time and trouble.” 

The waiter was entranced, both by her wit and by 
the promised entertainment. He nearly dropped his 
tray in his delight. 

“Say ! I’ll have to see that! 

“Oh, sure!” Once more with withering glance Jimmie 
turned upon him. “Gee, you men! An’ a waiter don’t 
seem to be no different than the chaps on the stock 
exchange. The thing that gets me is you all know 
what us girls look like, but you’ll pay good money just 
to see for sure that they ain’t started makin’ us any 
different.” 

And she buried herself again in the magazine, while 
the waiter went off to his duties with uproarious 
laughter. 

Somebody else was coming to join her, but Jimmie 
didn’t know it, so softly did this slender girl in plain 
black slip up to the table. If one had looked at her 
a second time he might have discovered her to be of a 
fragile loveliness; but few would have looked that 
second time. Her beauty was altogether subtle; there 


14 


POLLY PREFERRED 


was no striking feature about it to catch the eye; and 
her dress from head to foot was of the most incon¬ 
spicuous type. In fact, it barely escaped being dowdy, 
although, upon second thoughts, one might have ob¬ 
served that no dress could ever be quite dowdy upon 
this dainty creature with her delicate distinction of 
bearing and manner. 

She’ came with a cup of coffee in her hand, and 
quietly secured the seat beside Jimmie, placing the 
coffee ready; then she turned to the display of food 
behind glass, with a view to lunch. 

Jimmie woke from her film trance with a sudden start. 

“Oh! There you are, Polly 1 I was wondering what 
had happened to you!” 

“Max told me to wait.” The girl’s soft voice with 
its musical quality fell upon the air in marked con¬ 
trast to Jimmie’s good-tempered rasping. 

“What for?” 

“He said he’d got something to say to me,” Al¬ 
though she spoke quietly, something in her manner 
revealed the fact that what Max had said was im¬ 
portant. There was an ominous note in her very 
repression, like the lull before the storm. 

Jimmie sensed trouble. As her friend returned to 
the table she looked searchingly into the pale face. 

“Well—shoot!” she demanded. 

Polly hesitated a moment, and something sparkly 
showed upon her long curling lashes. 

“They’ve taken my part away from me,” she said. 

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. 

“Taken your part! You don’t mean it!” she cried 


IN THE AUTOMAT 


15 


ferociously. Then, with an attempt to relieve the 
situation by humor, she inquired; “Not both lines?” 

The tragically lovely little face of the other broke 
into a smile. “Don’t be catty, darling—there were 
four of them,” she replied as she brought her sand¬ 
wich to the place beside Jimmie and seated herself 
there. But again the smile was banished. 

“And they’ve taken the dance, and the pantomime 
—everything!” she added, letting the sandwich lie 
untouched. 

“Gee, but that’s a damn shame! Just because you 
wouldn’t let Max Aarons get fresh with you.” 

“Oh, no, he never tried to get fresh with me.” Polly 
took up her sandwich languidly as if it were a dreary 
duty. Her voice was low, she said little, there was 
no demonstration of anger or grief; and yet she was 
a picture of tragedy—a tragedy so exquisite, so gentle, 
that it was like that of a crushed flower. 

“Well, don’t admit it,” Jimmy chattered on in her 
vigorous volubility. “I never do. You might as well 
use a thing like this to improve your reputation. When 
you do get a little extra to do, the girls all say it’s 
because you’ve fallen for the stage manager. That’s 
chorus dames all over!” 

Polly took another dreary nibble and stirred her 
coffee aimlessly. 

“He said he’d got to give the part to that new girl, 
Jane Winter,” she explained: “He’d been asked to by 
one of the backers. So of course-” 

“One of the backers, my hind-foot!” screamed 
Jimmie. “That truck-driver’s his sweetie, that’s what 



16 


POLLY PREFERRED 


she is. Ain’t it a crime the way they mix love with 
art?” And she shook a rueful head over this wicked 
world. 

“No, I think it’s true, Jimmie. I saw him talking to 
one of the men who was watching the rehearsal. One 
of the girls said his name was Rutherford.” 

Jimmy squinted while she thought hard. “Is it Joe 
Rutherford?” she asked. 

Polly nodded assent. 

“Yes.” Jimmy had it at last. “That’s right, I 
guess. I did hear that he had a piece of the show.” 
She laid down her fork with a dark face. 

Polly turned to her with only a languid interest. 
“Who is he?” 

“He’s a broker, I think. I don’t know a lot about 
him, but I know he belongs to the Yale Club. I met 
him once at a party.” 

“Well, at any rate he’s landed me out in the cold 
world with no new productions in sight till fall.” 
Polly’s gaze was far beyond the idle sandwich lying 
on her plate; far beyond the rows of crowded tables, 
the hustling waiters and bustling customers, far be¬ 
yond this visible world and its jostling, cheerful multi¬ 
tudes. It had wandered on into dim realms of misery 
where there wasn’t any work, and consequently wasn’t 
any pay, and where the drama of lovely, longing 
youth and gnawing poverty played itself on and on 
indefinitely with never a final curtain. 

Jimmie puzzled a moment over the meaning of her 
words. “You don’t mean to say that you’ve quit 
altogether?” she demanded, incredulous. 


IN THE AUTOMAT 


17 


“Oh, I just couldn't stay and do chorus work and 
nothing else.” 

“Gee, you’ve rehearsed four weeks for nothing!” 
cried Jimmie aghast. 

“Yes. I thought I’d got a chance at last. I know 
I could act if they’d only give me the chance.” Sud¬ 
denly a flame shot up in the pale little face; one 
guessed that there were dreams somewhere hidden be¬ 
hind that gentle sadness. And not only dreams; one 
of keen insight might have caught a flash of untold 
possibilities as well. 

“You bet you can!” agreed the loyal Jimmie. “Why, 
you’re the real actin’ kid, you are. I seen you had the 
genius of a Sarah Bernhardt the first time I set me 
penetratin’ orbs on you, and I’ve never had to change 
spectacles since. Gee! If I had your genius-” 

Polly, still gazing into the unseen distance of her 
thoughts, went on as much to herself as to Jimmie: 

“I had hoped if I made good in my bit they might 
give me Madge Rockwell’s part to understudy.” 

Jimmie made a wry face. “Aw, gee, how you would 
have shown that dame up if she ever gave you a 
chance to go on! An’ you can’t tell. There’s always 
a hope she’d run up against a piece of tired fish with 
ptomaine sauce.” 

Polly didn’t laugh. She didn’t see a joke just then 
any more than she saw the crowded restaurant, or 
the forlornly neglected sandwich with its one little 
crescent-shaped bite taken out of a corner as it stared 
up at her from her forgotten plate. She was still far 
away with the dreams and the disappointments. 



18 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“It looked as if I’d really made a start at last, after 
my long trying to get on—but this Rutherford man 
just yanked me back again!” 

Jimmie administered a friendly slap on the shoulder. 
“Oh, say, forget it! Why don’t you pick out some 
nice college boy and marry him? Nothing like mar¬ 
riage to-” 

“I don’t want to get married!” 

“You don’t have to want to! I mean just for the 
advertisement! It’s a great help to an ambitious girl 
to marry into some rich family—for a week or two. 
Terrible scandal—article in Town Topics—pictures 
in all the papers—they’d give you a part to play soon 
enough then!” 

Polly smiled faintly through her misery but she 
shook her head. 

“I’m afraid I’ve got sort of old-fashioned ideas 
about marrying—and men—and all that,” she con¬ 
fessed. With her small hands folded before her on the 
table, her trim little feet placed primly together, she 
looked more the blush rose from some fragrant old- 
time garden than the shoving, gaudy young peony of 
today. I’m broad-minded enough about the other 
girls—but-” 

“Maybe you’re right,” assented Jimmie philosoph¬ 
ically. “They’s a lot of books written to prove that it 
pays a girl to keep respectable. I’ve spent two years in 
the chorus and I ain’t never noticed that it did—but 
then, maybe the three cases I’ve seen ain’t enough to 
judge by.” 

Polly roused herself from her dreary reverie. 




IN THE AUTOMAT 


19 


“Well, there’s no use to get discouraged,” she said, 
admonishing herself with all the cheeriness she could 
muster. “Maybe if I try a new sandwich I can make 
a fresh start. How are the egg sandwiches?” She 
went again to the slots and ran her eye over the delica¬ 
cies displayed. 

“Dunno—I had tongue. The fellow that cut it 
practises at night slicing visiting cards up into cigar¬ 
ette papers.” 

Polly laughed. “You’re always kicking, Jimmie. 
I think the food is good here—and the coffee’s great.” 
Having started out to he cheerful, she kept at it 
determinedly. “Yes, an egg sandwich . . . maybe 

I’ll try one. . . .” She busied herself with the 

machine. 

“Hello, there!” said somebody to Jimmie, and she 
looked up to see a man of about forty entering—a 
rather good-looking and decidedly well-dressed man 
who might have passed for altogether good-looking 
but for the heavy lines of dissipation that were sketched 
in his face. 

“Who the devil is he?” queried Jimmie under her 
breath; but she cordially replied: 

“Hello your own self!” 

As she said it, recognition came. 

“Gee! If it isn’t Rutherford!” breathed Jimmie. 


CHAPTER II 


“a little present” 

Joe Rutherford entered slowly, approaching the 
table where Jimmie sat and where Polly’s place awaited 
her. His shrewd eye, in which a glint of insolence 
hovered, swung from Jimmie seated, to Polly standing, 
taking them both in, sizing up the situation, and 
evidently sending on notes to be recorded mentally. 
There was an air of purpose in his slow approach; 
anyone might have guessed that he had come to the 
Automat for some definite reason, and probably a 
reason not pertaining to food. One didn’t picture Joe 
Rutherford lunching on a tongue sandwich from a 
slide. 

“Hello, there,” he repeated to Jimmie as he drew 
near the table, but his insolent eye still slung itself 
in Polly’s direction. She stood all unconscious, study¬ 
ing the sandwiches as profoundly as if they had been 
examples in Trigonometry. It seemed as though 
the solution of life hung upon her decision as to a ham 
sandwich or one of egg. 

Rutherford halted beside the table and leaned, with 
an air of world-ownership, against the back of a chair. 

“I believe I met you at a party out at Blossom 
Heath,” he drawled casually to Jimmie. 

She returned his indifferent stare with one of like- 
20 


“A LITTLE PRESENT” 


21 


wise indifference, and, raising an imaginary monocle 
to her eye, looked him over. 

“Deah me! If it’s not Mistah Rutherford!” she 
drawled. 

He shrugged, and smiled. “Didn’t make you at 
first,” he observed. “I’ve only seen you in your step¬ 
ping-out clothes.” 

At Jimmie’s mention of his name, Polly had turned 
sharply where she stood before the machine, and her 
swift glance swept over the man. A flush mounted the 
delicate pallor of her cheeks, and for an instant she 
bit her lip nervously; then, with a proud fling of her 
little head, she took her sandwich and walked back to 
her place at the table beside Jimmie, seating herself 
with an air of cold hauteur. No playing the whipped 
dog for Polly! 

Even Rutherford’s insolence seemed somehow to 
sense her delicate scorn, and he cleared his throat 
three times before his words came. Then, rallying 
his arrogance, he addressed her. 

“Is this Miss Brown? The stage doorman told me 
he heard you say you were going in here.” 

Polly bowed icily in acknowledgment, and attacked 
her sandwich as if it were the one interest in life 
just then. 

But the irrepressible Jimmie had been silent as long 
as she could stand it. 

“Say!” she demanded, leaning forward truculently, 
her firm little jaw set. “I wanta know something, you 
Mr. Joe Rutherford. Is it you that’s responsible for 
gettin’ this kid fired?” 


22 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Jimmie!” Polly reproved her decorously. Jimmie 
really was incorrigible! 

“She wasn’t fired!” Rutherford protested. “I under¬ 
stand she resigned.” His voice went a trifle high as 
he said it; evidently, there was some hidden embarrass¬ 
ment behind even Joe Rutherford’s insolence. 

“Well, a girl’s got some pride, you know, even if 
she is a chorus Jane,” Jimmie retorted. She seemed 
to swell as she said it, much as a fond and furious hen 
swells when defending her chick. 

Joe turned to Polly now, and took up the matter 
directly. 

“You know, I think you’re a very foolish little girl,” 
he began, “to chuck away a forty-a-week job. Of 
course, I know that most of you ladies use your salaries 
to pay your chauffeurs, but I can see that you’re not 
that kind.” 

“Oh, you can see that, can you,” replied Polly. But 
her satire was lost upon Joe; already his full self¬ 
sureness had returned. 

“Yes, I can. And that’s the reason I wouldn’t let 
myself out of a good engagement if I were you.” 

“You mean—it may take a girl like me some time 
to find a new one?” Polly was not looking at him— 
she seemed to be asking the question of her own 
thoughts. 

“Well—I don’t want to be rude,” replied Ruther¬ 
ford with a touch of patronage, “but I don’t think 
Ziegfeld has been exactly falling over himself to get 
you.” He laughed, well pleased at his own wit. 

Delicately icy, Polly inquired: 


“A LITTLE PRESENT” 


23 


“Will you please tell me what business it is of yours 
what I do?” 

“Oh, come now, don’t get on your high horse with 
Popper.” He made a gesture of good-natured con¬ 
tempt, and seated himself now, with an air of taking 
possession of the table and the situation. He leaned 
boldly forward on his elbows, bringing his face near 
to Polly’s. 

“I like—actresses,” he said with slow significance, 
straight into her eyes. “And they—generally-—like 
me!” 

“Say, you just hate yourself, don’t you?” inquired 
the ever-explosive Jimmie. 

Joe turned to her angrily. “I’m not talking to 
you-” Didn’t he wdsh somebody would slice that ir¬ 

repressible tongue and make it into a sandwich! He 
turned again deliberately to Polly. “I thought, Miss 
Brown, if I were responsible for your losing your job 
I’d come in and try to square it.” And he reached into 
his pocket, drawing forth a fat bill folder that smelled 
agreeably of genuine seal, and displayed a handsome 
monogram in gold. 

“I’m going to make you a little present!” he an¬ 
nounced, and his satisfaction with Joe Rutherford 
puffed visibly. 

Polly drew back with a sharp movement. 

“You can’t make me any present.” 

(Of course she’d protest at first Rutherford told 
himself.) “Why not?” he said in what he believed 
to be a charming manner. “There are no strings on 
it. I’m not asking you to supper. I’m not even asking 



24 


POLLY PREFERRED 


you to lunch—ha-ha!” He slapped his knee over his 
own facetiousness. 

“No?” responded Polly gently but witheringly. 
Rutherford, however, was no fragile flower easily 
withered. He cheerfully bloomed on, highly pleased 
with himself. 

“No, indeed,” he continued with his magnificent 
patronage. “I’m just trying to be a little human, 
that’s all. So you needn’t be afraid of that part of 
it. You’re perfectly safe with me!” He folded his arms 
and beamed upon her beneficently. 

“I might forgive you,” said Polly slowly, thought¬ 
fully, “for taking my job away from me; but I will 
never forgive you—for saying that!” 

Joe’s eyebrows rose. “O—Oh! I thought you were 
one of these good little girls!” 

Polly faced him. “There isn’t any girl so good,” 
she said, “that she wants to be told she’s safe—not 
even when she’s a grandmother. Why don’t you tell 
me that I don’t attract you?” she swept on, with the 
hurt of honest womanly pride quivering in her voice. 
“Why don’t you tell me that I’ve got no looks—no 
charm?” All the torture of the nerve-racking experi¬ 
ences through which she had just passed—the loss of 
her long-coveted opportunity, the proud struggle that 
it had taken to refuse a humbler one—had left her 
nerves in rags; now she was on the verge, for a moment, 
of breaking down. 

“I didn’t say that!” Rutherford was sputtering 
apologetically. “I only said that this money I’m 
offering you-” 



“A LITTLE PRESENT” 


25 


“I don’t want your money!” Polly was mistress of 
herself again. “Nothing you could give me would make 
up for what you’ve taken away from me.” If it had 
been a fortune, she could not have spoken of it more 
solemnly. 

Joe laughed contemptuously. 

“Nonsense!” he jeered. “What did that part amount 
to? Just one silly little scene and a dance!” 

“That one silly little scene and that dance was 
something I’ve worked for over two years to get. It 
was a chance to stand out—to show what I could do— 
and you take it away from me. And then you think 
you can square things with a few dollars!” Her big 
gray-blue eyes met his fully, courageously; even Joe 
Rutherford winced a bit. 

“That’s show business!” broke in Jimmie at this 
point, having remained out of the conversation quite 
as long as was possible. “You can see that kinda 
thing happen every day. Gee, but it’s enough to turn 
a New Hampshire granite heart to the softness of a 
tar pavement in August! A girl with real talent works 
four years to get something, and then all of a sudden 
some doll-faced cutie comes along and grabs it away 
from her just because her blue-eyed boy has a pull. It 
sure is the limit!” Jimmie frowned like a thunder¬ 
cloud and shook her head once more over the dire 
ways of this wicked world. 

Rutherford rose. This being up against two of ’em 
wasn’t such a joke. “Look here, I’m going to get 
sore in a minute!” he said, half in joke and half in 
earnest, with a rather forced laugh. “I came in this 


26 


POLLY PREFERRED 


place to try and do the decent thing, but of course 
if you won’t take my money, that’s your lookout. I 
don’t like to think I’ve injured anybody. I pride 
myself on being square. I-” 

But his protests were interrupted. A stranger ap¬ 
proached, his eye on the empty place at the table. He 
had already provided himself with a part of his lunch 
—a sandwich on a plate, the knife and fork and other 
small paraphernalia of the self-service equipment, and 
he was making for a comfortable seat at the corner of 
the table. 

The young man was neatly dressed in conventional 
business garb; his physique was manly and his features 
well-cut. But his outstanding attraction was a certain 
remarkable vigor, something that tingled and stirred 
you like a fresh breeze—a breeze full of salt and snap. 
It was in his step, his gesture, his voice. He paused 
as he reached Rutherford and, poising his plate and 
utensils, asked affably: 

“Say, have you got two nickels for a dime?” 

“No,” replied Joe bluntly, in no mood to make him¬ 
self agreeable to a stranger. He gave the young chap 
only a passing glance as he spoke, and turned back 
to Polly. 

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked her. 

“You said you hadn’t any,” she replied tantalizingly. 
Somehow her tragedy had faded; there was almost a 
suggestion of mischief in her glance at that fleeting 
moment. And she was observing the strange young 
man with something very near akin to interest. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t, either,” she said to him, al- 



“A LITTLE PRESENT” 


27 


though he had not asked the favor of her. “I wish 
I had,” her gray-blue eyes said. 

“Oh, I’d be satisfied with one nickel and the rest in 
small change,” replied the affable youth, and he waited 
expectantly as if used to a world that was always ready 
to respond to a friendly request in friendly fashion. 
However, nothing in the way of the desired change 
was forthcoming from the group at the table. 

“No?” he went on blandly. “All right, then. Per¬ 
haps you people wouldn’t mind keeping your eye on 
this junk of mine while I go get some coffee?” And 
he took possession of the place at the end of the table, 
next to Jimmie, arranging his plate with his sand¬ 
wich, his knife and fork, and other small possessions, 
in neat array. Plainly, he was a young man bound to 
meet life with brisk cheerfulness and to discharge its 
duties, as they came along, with efficient willingness, 
even though they were no more interesting or impor¬ 
tant than setting out an Automat lunch for himself 
as trimly as the most artistic waiter could set a table 
at the Ritz. 

“Certainly,” Polly replied, and the smile with which 
she said it was the gift of a gracious princess. 

The young man halted at that smile. It was so full 
of charm, and of kindness, with a certain quaint little 
dignity behind it, that it struck him at that instant 
as the most adorable smile that he had ever seen—let 
alone receiving it himself! Somehow it sort of caught 
his breath. He gave Polly a long, grateful look in 
reply. “Thanks!” he exclaimed, and that “Thanks” 
covered a deal more than her mere police duty toward 


28 


POLLY PREFERRED 


his plate. He flushed a bit under his wholesome tan; 
started away; cast a backward glance; then hurried 
off to attend to the the rest of his provisions. 

Joe took up the broken thread of his protests. 

“I’m sorry if you think I’ve interrupted your 
career,” he went on lamely. “I always was counted 
square, and I pride myself on it. I-” 

But Polly stopped him with a disdainful shrug. 
“That’s all right,” she observed. “I’ll get there yet,” 
and her manner indicated that she had finished with 
the discussion. 

“You bet she’ll get there,” Jimmie affirmed. “She’ll 
be a star when that Winter dame is tryin’ to put a 
smile across the footlights with two rows workin’ in 
front of her. She’ll be such a bright an’ shinin’ star that 
the telescope man on the street corner’ll be sellin’ peeks 
at her at ten plunks per, and the squinters’ll be standin’ 
in line from Union Square to the Public Library. 
Maybe you’ll have to take up the study of astronomy 
then , my friend, and you’ll find there’s a lot you can 
learn about it, too!” 

Joe’s laugh was unpleasant. “Let’s hope she won’t 
be disappointed,” he retorted. He turned again to 
Polly. “Remember, we each think we’re the exception 
to the rule,” he told her with deliberate emphasis. “I 
heard them saying, ‘I’m not a regular chorus girl!’ 
before either of you were born. . . . Bye-bye.” 

With an attempt at a jaunty wave of the hand he 
started off. But he paused for one last attempt at 
self-j ustification. 

“If you change your mind about that money, Miss 



“A LITTLE PRESENT” 


29 


Brown, you’ll find my address in the telephone book.” 
He gave the rejected bill-folder a little flourish, as 
much as to say that it was as good as its word, before 
he stowed it away in his pocket again and departed. 

“Nice man!” observed Jimmie in a tone that 
spoke what words cannot utter, as she gazed after 
his departing figure; and she ferociously stabbed her 
pie with her fork and gave full attention to finishing 
her lunch. But Polly was slipping into thoughtful¬ 
ness again. 

“Maybe he’s right, Jimmie,” she said a little wist¬ 
fully. “Maybe I am—nothing but—an ‘also-ran’.” 

“Never! Not you!” declared the stout-hearted and 
loyal Jimmie. “You’re still in the running, kid, you 
bet your sweet life! You’re going to come into the 
stretch with the crowds cheering and the hats 
waving-” 

“Not if I am the kind of girl who can feel safe 
with men!” Polly shook her head. The words had cut 
deep. 

“Phew!” scorned Jimmie. “What do you care what 
that chaser says?” She gobbled the last bite of pie 
savagely and clattered down her fork upon her plate 
to emphasize her disgust. 

But Polly was following her own train of logic. 
“That’s just the point,” she explained. “It’s because 
he is a chaser—but he’d never chase me! Even if a girl 
prefers to be straight, she likes to have to put up a 
little argument occasionally.” Polly little guessed as 
she said it that she was voicing the thought of most 
of the “good girls” of the world. 



30 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“I know,” admitted Jimmie. “You don’t want ’em 
to make it too easy for you.” She caught sight of 
the staring face of the Automat clock. “Say! Half¬ 
past two! How long did Max give us off?” 

“Half an hour.” 

“Gee! I’ll have to hurry or the unemployed army’ll 
be growing—so long, kid!” 

She was departing with a cheery wave; but the 
sight of Polly’s face at that moment stabbed her. With 
a warm impulse she turned back and with a look that 
was maternally tender flashing for the instant across 
her sophistication, laid her hand on Polly’s shoulder 
with a motherly pat. 

“Sure you won’t change your mind and come back?” 
she asked, and there was a suggestion of shrewd ad¬ 
vice in the question. “It’s a darned world, but we’ve 
got to accept it at its darnedest,” was Jimmie’s phil¬ 
osophy. 

Polly still shook her head. Stubborn as a mule, 
reflected Jimmie, under that down-trodden violet way 
of hers ! The little cuss ! 

“No,” repeated Polly. “Not with that Rutherford 
man sitting smiling out in front.” 

“I guess you’re right, concluded the other with a 
parting pat. “Well—call me on the ’phone. Maybe 
I’ll hear of something.” 

“Thank you, Jimmie. Good-bye.” 

And as Jimmie hurried away she fired her parting 
shot at this world and the foibles of her own sex: 

“It’s a tough life, girlie, but that’s what we get for 
going in the show business while the honest miners are 


“A LITTLE PRESENT 51 


31 


short of wives. . . Well, so long ! 55 And she was 

gone. 

Polly, deserted now, pushed her sandwich away. 
Who wanted a sandwich, anyhow? How could anybody 
want food? Horrid stuff! She tasted the coffee. 
Horrid, too. Everything was horrid. It was a horrid 
world. A horrid, disgusting, execrable, terrible, 
frightening, hideous, miserable, horrible, hateable, 
loathsome . . . Polly couldn’t think up any more 

adjectives bad enough to describe this unfortunate 
sphere on which she happened to be located for life. 
She wished she had a dictionary to help her find some 
more. She had no other way to wreak vengeance upon 
it, except by calling it names. 

Sitting alone there in the great city’s midst she was 
as solitary as upon a desert island. Around her life 
flowed—crowded, shining, jostling life—like waves, it 
passed her, like the waves that slap the shore on which 
you are marooned, sparkle and laugh at you caught 
there, and rollick away—leaving yoUj That was what 
life had done to her—it had left her ‘marooned. 

Always, as far back as she could remember, she had 
wanted to act. She had played theater with her dolls 
when she was a wee child; later, she had dressed up 
in long dresses to look like a grown lady, and had 
swished on and off an imaginary stage. Somebody 
had once taken her to see Julia Marlowe in “Romeo 
and Juliet”; how she had thrilled at the music of the 
lines, and how she had come home to act it out, every 
line that she could remember! She had climbed into 
the dumb-waiter, playing that it was the balcony, and 


32 


POLLY PREFERRED 


had gazed forth from its opening into the kitchen, 
heaving a long-drawn sigh. 

“Now you must be Romeo,” she had said to her little 
brother. “And I’ll say to you, 

‘O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon, 
That monthly changes in her circled orb, 

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable,’ 

And then you say to me, 

‘What shall I swear by?’ . . 

With a sweeping gesture she had been about to 
commence her lines; but the little brother had broken 
in. 

“Naw! It’s bad to swear. Teacher says so. I 
ain’t goin’ to do it, not unless you gimme five cents!” 

And at that moment somebody below had snatched 
the dumb-waiter rope, and down, bangety-bang, had 
gone Juliet, balcony and all. 

Almost laughing at the memories that were rushing 
in, Polly looked up. That salt-breezy young man had 
returned with his coffee and pie, and stood gazing down 
at her. 


CHAPTER III 


“they all want girls!” 

Polly drew in her smile with a demure pucker of the 
lips, and addressed herself strictly to her lunch. Her 
eyes were glued to her plate; apparently she had no 
thought in life but the interests of that neglected 
sandwich. And the young man, finding his gaze not 
returned, seated himself reticently at the end of the 
table and arranged his own coffee and pie. 

But although the young lady appeared to be un¬ 
conscious of his presence, he had lost all consciousness 
of everything else but hers . Above a bite of sandwich 
he gazed at her; over the edge of his coffee cup he 
snatched a stare. Having removed his hat promptly, 
he now attempted to put it away in orderly fashion, 
but his fingers turned to thumbs, his thoughts to 
water; the hat wouldn’t go under his chair, it wouldn’t 
go behind him in the chair, it wouldn’t go anywhere. 
He fumbled miserably with it, he slopped over his 
coffee on the table, he turned from tan to red and from 
red to purple; and through all his embarrassment, 
the cool young lady continued to absorb herself in her 
plate and to keep a blush-rose cheek of indifference 
turned toward his eagerness and misery. Wouldn’t 
that blooming hat stay put? Wouldn’t his ten thumbs 
33 


34 


POLLY PREFERRED 


turn back to fingers? And wouldn’t, oh, wouldn’t she 
ever look up and let a chap speak to her? 

At last he induced the hat to locate itself in the 
empty chair which Jimmie had left, between him and 
the object of his admiration. And at last he found 
voice; clearing his throat, he uttered words. They 
were not profound words, but he hoped they would 
serve to break the ice. 

“Good coffee, isn’t it?” 

There was a pause before she replied. In fact, she 
looked rather undecided as to whether to reply at 
all. At length she said: 

“Not as good as usual.” 

Neither was this a profound statement, but the 
young man felt a thrill of delight. Now the ice was 
really getting cracked! 

“Oh, yes, it is!” he assured her brightly. “You’re 
not feeling as good as usual.” 

“Perhaps you’re right,” she admitted thoughtfully. 
She didn’t quite look at him as she spoke; she hadn’t 
entirely entered into conversation; and yet he had a 
strong impression that she was not annoyed with him 
for speaking. In fact, a friendly little smile hovered 
about her lips. 

“Funny,” he continued. “You’d think I’d agree 
with you about the coffee. Things aren’t so jake 
around my way today.” Saying which, he gave vent 
to a carefree, hearty laugh. “I just lost my job this 
morning.” 

“I’m sorry,” the girl said. Actually, she looked as 
though she meant it. 


“THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


35 


“Oh, I don’t know—it just makes life more ro¬ 
mantic,” he responded. “Yesterday I was a salesman 
—so much salary—such and such a territory—but 
tomorrow—tomorrow I may be anything /” 

“That’s one way of looking at it.” 

“It’s the only way to look at it. Possibilities— 
never forget your possibilities. That’s where the 
romance is, and romance is the salt of life. . . . You 
walk along a street—every house alike—uninterest¬ 
ing, eh? But think what each house contains—each 
one a drama—if you walk up—turn the door-handle 
and walk in—-there’d be romance—-possibilities !” 

He had warmed to his subject until he was glowing, 
and his enthusiasm was so genuine that Polly felt the 
sparks from it. “It must be nice to find life so in¬ 
teresting !” she said. 

He looked at her keenly. 

“It is. And it ought to be more interesting to you!” 
he declared. 

“Why?” 

“Well—” He hesitated, and his manner turned 
earnest, almost pleading for the moment. “You won’t 
think I’m trying to flirt if I tell you?” 

She smiled faintly. “I’ll try not to.” 

“Well,” he began deliberately. “This is why. You’ve 
got everything. You’ve got looks—charm—magne¬ 
tism—personality. Pelt it as soon as I came near you. 
And each one of those things is a door that leads to 
infinite possibilities.” 

Again she smiled faintly. “Gee, I’m sorry you’re not 
a manager!” she sighed. 


36 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Manager? Oh, are you an actress?” His eager 
interest doubled. 

“Yes, but nobody knows it. I’m nothing but a chorus 
girl.” 

“You oughtn’t to stick around in the chorus!” he 
asserted firmly. “You’re wasting your time.” 

“I know it.” 

His curiosity was all aroused now. “What’s the 
matter?” he demanded. “Don’t you know how to sell 
yourself?” 

With a start she turned, and her big eyes stared 
at him in astonishment. “Sell myself?” 

“Sure! That’s what everybody has to do. It’s all 
a question of salesmanship. You’ve got to take your 
goods, whatever they are, and make them look attrac¬ 
tive. But don’t overdo it or the customers will get 
suspicious. And then the price—not too high—not 
too low—and it needn’t be money necessarily. Oppor¬ 
tunity—that’s what you want to be paid in, isn’t 
it?” 

“Yes.” Polly couldn’t help giving interested atten¬ 
tion; the young man was so good-looking and manly 
and tall and broad and well-groomed, and his enthu¬ 
siasm blew like a fresh ocean breeze on a muggy day. 
In fact, it became a high wind now, almost sweeping 
her up with it, as he burst forth of a sudden: 

“Say! I wonder if you aren’t the very thing I’m 
looking for!” 

She gave a little jump, for he really was the most 
startling young man she had ever encountered with his 
bursts of philosophy and high spirits that came shoot- 


“THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


37 


ing at you like firecrackers. But she balanced a care¬ 
less smile and inquired: 

“You’re looking for a job, aren’t you?” 

He was lost to everything now except the idea that 
bad seized him. He took his hat from the chair that 
stood between them, and slid into it, so that now he 
was close beside her, could lean toward her with arms 
on the table and talk straight into her big, questioning 
gray-blue eyes. 

“I’m looking for something to sell,” he declared. 
“And I think I could sell you!” 

She laughed lightly. What an absurd young man 
he was. “Who to?” she asked him casually. 

“Well, that depends.” He leaned closer. “You’ll 
have to tell me. What do you want most in the 
world?” 

Over her gentleness came the most surprising change. 
For the moment she was another Polly; a vicious, 
biting little Polly whom she herself didn’t even know. 

“I want,” she replied firmly, “to do somebody dirt!” 

The young man looked at her in astonishment. 

“I want,” she went on in the same tone, “to dab 
them in both eyes with a burnt stick, and break their 
umbrella, and tear up their rubbers on the wettest day 
in the year!” 

Poor little thing! She must have been hard hit by 
bad luck! he reflected. 

“You want that more than success?” he asked her. 

“More than anything in the world. If you know 
any way to make me a <1 readful menace to a disagiee- 
able Wall Street broker 


38 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Was that the fellow you were talking with a few 
minutes ago ?” The young man had noticed the chap; 
a hard face he had, and a hard way. No wonder the 
little thing wanted to do somebody dirt if that chap 
had been making trouble for her! 

“Yes,” she answered. “He doesn’t agree with you 
about my possibilities. He thinks I’m just a small 
round zero!” And a small round tear dangled peril¬ 
ously near the dropping-off place on her long lashes. 

The young man slapped his palms together and shut 
his lips as if he knew how to handle that , all-right-all- 
right! “Well,” he proposed, “how would you like to 
show him that you’re not ? Seems to me that’s the first 
step. And then after you’re rich and successful—and 
celebrated-” 

“Oh, we’re just going to begin with those!” she 
laughed. She had caught the infection of his high 
spirits now; she didn’t know what sort of plan he had 
simmering over that furnace of his enthusiasm, but 
whatever it was, it was amusing; and suppose it was 
some sort of a real idea, after all? 

“You’ll be all those things—rich and successful and 
celebrated—and more too—provided you’re what I 
think you are,” he responded. 

“What you think I am.” Polly paused over that 
phrase. “I don’t quite like the sound of that!” she 
demurred. “I’m poor but respectable.” 

Good gracious, the girl didn’t suppose that he 
thought- 

“Of course you are!” he hastened to correct any 
false impression. “I can see that!” 




“THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


39 


But at this she shook her head despondently. “I 
knew it!” she exclaimed. “It shows! I’ll bet that’s 
been my trouble. Poor but respectable, and everybody 
sees it—at once! It’s a matter of course! I’ll bet 
that’s been my trouble all along!” 

“No,” he reassured her. “Your trouble is you’ve 
got everything except salesmanship. Lots of people 
have.” He wasn’t going to alter his theory; he knew 
he had the right idea and he stuck to it manfully. 

But, “No,” she still insisted. “There’s something 
besides. Every time I think I’ve got a chance to ‘sell 
myself’ as you call it, someone steps in and shoves me 
to one side.” Poor Polly had been knocked about by 
Pate so long and so painfully that she had reached 
the point of despairing fatalism and it was going to 
take a deal to rouse her from her slough of despond. 

He’d have to explain it to that girl—to put it over. 
She didn’t get the hang of the thing yet. Somehow he’d 
got to make her see — here she was, wasting perfectly 
good material— herself! Letting first-class, saleable 
goods lie around without a market, going to dry-rot, 
all for the want of salesmanship! How could he get 
it across to her? 

“Now here,” he began, settling himself with the air 
of a politician who’s bound to convince the opposing 
party by every argument and eloquence within his 
grasp. “How would you like it if I fixed things so’s 
people, instead of shoving you aside, tried to boost 
you up?” 

At least, he told himself, she was listening. 

“Remember after Mark Twain’s big smash,” he 


40 


POLLY PREFERRED 


went on, “he advised anyone who wanted to be a suc¬ 
cess to go bankrupt. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘all the people 
you owe money to will be figuring out some way for 
you to make money enough to pay them back. 5 That 
simply means, make a few people interested. The 
minute you do that they begin to boost. Boosting’s 
very catching. But all that comes after you’re a com¬ 
modity. The first thing is to promote you.” 

He rose and walked to the other side of the table. 
“Let me have a look at you,” he said. 

For a moment Polly hesitated; it was all so absurd, 
she thought, returning to her first impression, and 
wasn’t it rather impertinent, as well? Then she 
shrugged her shoulders with a little smile—he was 
such a jolly kid, after all, why not let him play his 
game his own way and see what came of it? Rather 
as if she were indulging a child in some juvenile non¬ 
sense, she walked forth to the open space beyond the 
table where her “salesman” could look her over from 
top to toe as if she were goods laid out upon the 
counter for inspection. 

By this time the lunchers had deserted the restau¬ 
rant, the waiters had gone about their kitchen duties, 
and the two were practically in possession. The young 
man stood off critically, observing Polly; at his ges¬ 
ture she turned, slowly revolving that he might get a 
view from every side; then she brought up stock still, 
confronting him where he stood, lips pursed and fore¬ 
head knit in his study. 

“Excuse me,” he began hesitantly, “but that—that— 
dress-” 



“THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


41 


“I know,” Polly responded with a sorry little smile 
of comprehension. She returned to her seat at the 
table. “My stepmother made it over from a last year’s 
one.” She glanced down at the plain little black gar¬ 
ment; it was almost threadbare, and its shape was a 
dismal relic of the season before. The fabric, which 
had once been fairly good, was worn to shabbiness; it 
had no style, no line, none of the air which the cheap¬ 
est of ready-made gowns worn by working-girls usually 
possess. The painful stamps, both “home-made” and 
“made-over,” seemed to be branded all over it. 

The young man rejoined her at the table and sat 
beside her. 

“Stepmother, eh?” he said sympathetically. “What 
about your family, anyway? Are you free to do what 
you like?” 

“Yes. My dad’s married again and has a new 
brood growing up. Fact is, I’m rather in the way.” 
Something between a smile and a sigh accompanied this 
information. 

The young man clapped his hands together delight¬ 
edly at this bit of news. “Family conditions ideal!” 
he exclaimed. 

“Dad is awfully poor,” Polly went on. Now that 
the ice had come to be so thoroughly broken, all 
smashed to bits, in fact, she showed an engaging frank¬ 
ness in setting forth her family conditions to the full. 
“He has a position in the public library.” 

The young man groaned. 

“It’s the library over in South Brooklyn. That’s 
where I was born.” 


42 


POLLY PREFERRED 


He gazed at her with an intensified curiosity. 
“Funny!” he said. “I can’t picture that.” 

“Picture what?” 

“Oh—the Gowanus Canal—the Bush Terminal— 
gas works—and you!” The whole sordid picture un¬ 
rolled itself before him, and in the midst of it this 
freshly lovely little figure, out of place, strangely in¬ 
congruous. You could as well picture a trailing ar¬ 
butus in a battered tin tomato can—as for tin cans, 
indeed—an awful vision of them, rusty and dented and 
piled in heaps rose before him as he recalled a certain 
Brooklyn vista that he used to pass sometimes. “Tin 
cans—gas works—and you!” he repeated, pondering. 

“Yes. It’s an awful place to come from.” 

He summoned hope. “Never mention it,” he advised 
her. “That’s the first rule. Now then; have you got 
any sweethearts?” 

She shook her head vigorously. 

“Fiance?” he pressed on. 

The head was shaken more vigorously. “No!” she 
said. Not sweethearts but success filled Polly’s mind 
at present. 

“Better and better!” he exclaimed. “I want a good 
sensible girl with nothing on her mind but getting 
ahead. Soon’s she gets her head full of men there’s no 
room for anything else. They elbow other things out. 
I like to see a girl who’s business all through—no non¬ 
sense about her—no sentimentality—no soppiness—all 
business from the word go. Give me a girl like that 
and I’ll make her-” 

“Yes?” For some reason Polly’s enthusiasm had 


“THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


43 


waned. Perhaps something that she didn’t know about 
was getting busy down in her subconscious mind. These 
subconscious minds are queer places, and they hatch 
many an emotion that we don’t understand. 

“I’m not bothering with things like that either,” 
the business-like young man went on. “So you’re per¬ 
fectly safe with me.” He brought his palm down upon 
his knee emphatically in token of reassurance. 

Rut Polly flashed a quick look of anxious inquiry at 
him. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” 

“Nothing,” replied Polly dubiously. 

“You want to be an actress, don’t you?” 

“That’s the rough idea.” 

He was suddenly struck by a new thought, or rather 
a development of the earlier one. “How about the 
movies?” he put to her. “There’s a lot of scope in 
that field. Like ’em?” 

“Ye-es—sometimes. I like those that have some 
dainty comedy, and lots of lovely scenery, and a dash 
of adventure, seasoned to taste with romance. That’s 
my favorite recipe.” 

He laughed appreciatively. 

“But I’m not passionately addicted to the vampy 
ones. I should never want to be a black-eyed, black¬ 
haired siren, with a glance that held helpless man as 

the eye of the serpent holds the fluttering bird-” 

Suiting the action to the word, Polly drew herself up 
haughtily, then impaled the young man upon a spiked 
glance that might indeed have struck terror to any 
more feeble heart. 



44 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Say, you’re great !” He gave vent to his admira¬ 
tion in a soft hand-clapping. “You’re the actress all 
right. Well—we won’t make a vamp of you.” He 
looked at her, smiling. “You’d have to do some tall 
acting, too, to put it over—you’re about as far from 
a vamp in real life as they make ’em. But what about 
the other kind ? The girls that we’re all crazy 
about?—That is, that other chaps are crazy about,” 
he amended. “It pays a lot better than the stage. 
Why, from what a fellow told me, the best they’d ever 
give you on the stage would be fifteen hundred a week.” 

“Fifteen hundred!” cried Polly. “You get me fifty 
and I’ll divide with you!” 

He laughed. “It’d be twice as hard to get you fifty 
a week—so many people think they’re worth that. 
And all the big movie stars get a share of the business. 
That may mean anything up to a million a year. And 
then, it doesn’t take as long to get to the top as it does 
on the regular stage. What’s your objection to the 
movies ?” 

“I haven’t any objection.” 

“Then it’s settled.” The whole matter was arranged 
now to the young man’s satisfaction; nothing to do 
but to go ahead—and do it. But Polly broke in. 

“Wait a minute! This is all very well to talk 
about-” 

He groaned. That was everlastingly the trouble. 
People were always saying, “This is all very well to 
talk about,” when he put forth his golden schemes. As 
if you hadn’t got to talk about a thing before you did 
it. And who was it did the bulk of the talking, any- 



“THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


45 


way? Why, the others—the skeptics—the people that 
wouldn’t believe, and had to demur, and to chew the 
rag, and to thrash, thrash, thrash until there wasn’t 
anything left—any grain or chaff either. Why couldn’t 
a person just plunge in—dive—the way he always 
wanted to do—dive off the board straight away, and 
then strike out without any more fuss, and—swim! 
Swim straight to success! 

“I know,” he said gloomily. “You’re like every¬ 
body else. You think I’m crazy.” 

“Oh, no, not exactly crazy,” Polly politely denied. 
“But—well, it is rather funny! You want me to put 
myself in your hands as a sort of agent-” 

“Yes.” 

“And all I know about you is that you were fired 
this morning.” A smile that was both demure and 
cynical curled Polly’s lips drolly; she wasn’t convinced. 
And yet, somehow, she was intrigued a bit; she couldn’t 
altogether scoff at the strange young man’s madness. 
She had heard of a “madness that is the highest sort 
of sanity.” Was that the kind that his was? Was he, 
after all, more a genius than a lunatic? She was 
puzzled; but while puzzling, the outside of her smiled 
that very skeptical little smile, for the outside, at least, 
wasn’t one bit convinced whether the inside, the sub¬ 
conscious, was or not. 

“Yes—I was fired this morning, as I told you,” he 
responded frankly, and there was something engagingly 
honest about his explanation. “But there was a good 
reason for it. I was selling something that didn’t 
attract me. I wasn’t interested. One of the first 



46 


POLLY PREFERRED 


laws of salesmanship is 4 A salesman, to succeed, has 
got to be interested in his line of goods . 5 I couldn’t, 
to save my neck, get up any enthusiasm about silk 
underwear . 55 

Two elusive dimples showed above the corners of 
Polly’s mouth. 

“Oh,” she observed. “And you are attracted by 
your new line of goods ?” 

“Yes. Because it’s the one thing in the world that 
every man really wants. What are books—theaters— 
dancing-parties—it’s all girls l Your customers may 
not want to buy filing cabinets, or tweed overcoats, or 
patent ash-cans, but they all want girls! It’s uni¬ 
versal !” 

No sewing-machine agent who ever wedged his way 
into your front door, no book agent who ever cornered 
you until you were held at bay, could have burned with 
a fiercer fire of salesmanship than did this young man 
as he set forth the merits of his wares. Girls! You 
might have fancied that he had them in a salesman’s 
bag upon his arm, ready to take your order for any 
number of dozen or gross on the spot. 

Polly turned squarely toward him and studied him 
for a moment. “What do you want me to do?” she 
asked. 

“First I want to fix you up and put you in the shop 
window.” 

“Shop window?” 

“Yes.” He fell into silence, studying hard on his 
scheme. “Let me think just how we’ll go about it. . 
. . I have it—it’s got to be the Biltmore or the 


“THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


47 


Ritz.” He studied again for seconds. “Look here! 
Can you wear model sizes?” 

He was going so fast now that she found herself 
rather dazed. “Can I what?” she inquired in per¬ 
plexity. 

“Because if you can,” he pushed on, ignoring her 
perplexity, so preoccupied was he with this fast-de¬ 
veloping scheme of his, “I know a man who’ll lend us 
a French model gown or two. But we’ve got to get a 
coat—one of those gray things. Chin—chin—what 
do you call that confounded animal, anyway?” 

Polly laughed heartily. “I think we’ll have to call 
it chipmunk! Chinchilla costs at least twenty thou¬ 
sand dollars!” The ignorance of these ridiculous men! 
But still she couldn’t follow the plunging plans of this 
wild youth. “I still don’t see—where do you come in?” 
she asked. 

“Don’t you worry—I’ll fix it so I get my share,” he 
reassured her. “I’ve got a mother and a kid sister to 
support, so I’ve got to make good. Besides, they be¬ 
lieve in me. It’s a great help to have someone who 
believes in you.” Probably the young man wasn’t 
aware that in that short statement he had voiced some 
of the biggest philosophy in the world; that the very 
fact that a man was what is called “weighted down” 
with responsibility for others, has time and time again 
been the kite by whose force he rose 

His words struck home with Polly. “I’m beginning 
to think it is a help,” she said. No use denying it— 
his enthusiasm and conviction had picked her up as the 
kite picks up its tail, and she was soaring to. 


48 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Now then, we ought to draw up some kind of an 
agreement,” he began in a manner of “business first, 
last, and all the time.” He looked about for a piece 
of paper—felt in his pockets—saw something lying 
beside Polly’s plate. 

“What’s that piece of paper?” he asked. “Is there 
room to write on that?” 

She laughed. “Plenty,” she replied. “That was my 
part!” 

He laughed sympathetically, and another rivet was 
driven in their good understanding. He took the poor 
little “part” and laid it out on the table between them— 
a cast-off “scrap of paper” on which they were about 
to make a fresh start, these two young down-and-out- 
ers, on the hoped-for road to success. 

“My name’s Bob Cooley,” he stated, writing. 
“What’s your’s?” 

“Polly Brown.” 

“Brown, eh?” He shook his head disapprovingly. 
“We’ll have to change that.—See about it later—Well, 
now, here goes-” 

She was listening intently. 

“I guarantee on my part to sell you to the best ad¬ 
vantage—in other words, to make you as much of a 
success as you are capable of becoming. (You see, 
there aren’t ninety per cent of the people in this world 
that ever live up to their possibilities. They die at 
last, with their lives less than one-tenth lived—and no 
chance to start over, here , anyhow.) Roughly speak¬ 
ing, my plan is this—first, I put you in the show win¬ 
dow—then, when the customers come around-” 




"THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


49 


He had lowered his voice as the plot thickened, and 
Polly bent a trifle nearer to hear. 

“This is my whole scheme in a nutshell,” began Bob. 

* * * * * 

During much of that afternoon the conspirators 
held council—first in the restaurant, later on a marble 
bench in the Public Library. At moments, as the young 
man unfolded his scheme in full, Polly was seized with 
a desire to laugh at the absurdity of him; at other 
moments, she felt him candidate for an insane asylum. 
And yet, somehow, she couldn’t help falling in. His 
plans were created while he went along. He would 
borrow the most sumptuous costume to be found on 
Fifth Avenue, on the pretense of getting it photo¬ 
graphed for a fashion page; Polly would attire herself 
in it; and together they would seek the promenade of 
one of the large hotels and lie in wait for victims. 

“I always did have a liking for the Ritz,” she said 
wistfully. She had been there once for dinner, and it 
had left a golden memory. 

But the young man was very austere, once he made 
up his mind. “No,” he said, “now that I think it over, 
I’m sure the Biltmore is the place. That’s where I can 
land just the type of men I’m after—men of affairs, 
big business.” 

So it was settled that they should meet at the Bilt¬ 
more the following afternoon to lay siege. 

“Now, the idea’s this,” he explained to her. “You’re 
a wealthy girl who has a great gift as an actress, and 
you’ve decided to go into the movies. I’m managing 
you. We’ve got a group of men to back you, to form 


50 


POLLY PREFERRED 


a new company just for the sake of starring you. Get 
that?” 

“I get it,” Polly replied, not quite sure that she did. 

“Don’t think of yourself as Polly Brown—remem¬ 
ber that you are already wealthy and that the movie 
project is in existence. That’s the way to put it 
over. Get it so fixed in your head that you believe 
it yourself—see? That’s the way to make other people 
believe it.” 

“Yes—I see,” murmured Polly. 

“We’ll go to Fashion Row, where the men sit to look 
at the women passing, and I’ll stick around there and 
get into conversation with the men. You’ll walk past 
now and then, with the rest of the procession, and 
when I find a fish biting I’ll make an excuse to stop 
you and draw you into the conversation. Then we’ll 
see whether we can’t land some of them to come in on 
the thing and to put up money for the movie enter¬ 
prise.” 

“Goodness !” groaned Polly. “How ever can we carry 
it off?” 

“Now, you keep your nerve and trust to me!” he 
said. “I know you’re quick-witted—I can see it in 
your eye. I’ll have to adapt the yarn a little to the 
circumstances as they develop, but I’ll tip you off 
so that our stories will hang together. Now, about that 
dress-” 

Already Polly’s eyes were glowing at the thought of 
the Fifth Avenue gown—Polly of the made-over frock 
from Brooklyn. 

“I wear a perfect 34—that’s the new Venus’ meas- 



“THEY ALL WANT GIRLS!” 


51 


urement,” she smiled demurely. “And I look best in 
pink.” And the young man, looking down at her, won¬ 
dered—if she didn’t look best in anything! 

But he didn’t even know that he wondered it. 


CHAPTER IV 


MISS PIERPONT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 

It was a typical afternoon at the Biltmore Hotel, 
one of New York’s most fashionable rendezvous. The 
weather had brought out swarms of pleasure-seekers, 
and fine feathers were displaying fine birds to the best 
advantage. Like all the great hotels of the metropolis, 
this was filled with visitors from all over the country, 
as well as many from abroad; with them the New 
Yorkers mingled, eager to see but decidedly more eager 
to be seen. 

“Fashion Row” is that aisle along which dress and 
beauty parade in a ceaselessly flowing, sparkling 
stream. Palms and plants made a luxurious back¬ 
ground of green along the wall. From a room beyond 
could be caught now and then, above the chatter, the 
strains of music as an orchestra entertained the tea- 
tipplers, and waltz rhythms mingled with the poetic 
productions of the French pastry cook. Here in 
Fashion Row those who had already had tea, or were 
waiting for someone to have it with, lined the settees 
along the bank of palms, while those on display passed 
before them as if they had been mannequins displaying 
the latest creation in Georgette and Canton crepe and 
chiffon and lace. Marvellous fabrics and embroideries 
and floating scarfs and ribbons fluttered past, like the 
52 


MISS PIERPONT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 53 


plumage of exotic birds. In a small section, where a 
few chairs and a luxurious settee were ranged before a 
tapestried wall, two gentlemen had placed themselves, 
one to enjoy his newspaper, the other, the passing show. 

“Mr. Chester! Mr. Chester, please!” 

It was the nasal call of the page boy, droning his 
ceaseless chant. He entered—a small specimen of im¬ 
pertinence in uniform, forever seeking somebody and 
never looking to find him. 

“Mr. Chester, please! Mr. Chester!” 

The boy passed out of hearing with his nasal drone. 
As he vanished, a young man entered, crossed to the 
settee which stood between the two gentlemen in their 
chairs, took a seat as if he had a very definite purpose 
in doing so; it was our young friend of the Automat, 
Bob Cooley. 

A young lady, elaborately gowned, swept across the 
scene, leaving a ripple of admiration in her wake—and 
was gone. The men cast their usual glances in her 
direction and returned to their own thoughts—and 
newspaper. 

Bob edged along upon the settee until he was close 
to the gentleman who was communing with his thoughts. 
“Ahem!” observed Bob. 

No attention on the gentleman’s part. 

“Is this—I beg your pardon—but is this what they 
call Fashion Row?” Bob now demanded with polite 
firmness. 

“I guess so,” grunted the gentleman. He took out 
his watch and glanced at it disgustedly. “Humph!” 
he snorted. 


54 


POLLY PREFERRED 


But Bob was not to be cut off so easily. “It’s 
funny,” he continued with a chummy air, “You always 
see the chairs full, of men.” At this moment he made 
a mysterious signal to someone in the distance—a sig¬ 
nal that seemed to mean, “Cornel” 

But the gentleman grunted' more fiercely than be¬ 
fore. “Nothing funny about that,’* he snarled. “They’re 
waiting for women.” And his. tone was so forbidding 
that the young man now sent another mysterious wig¬ 
wag into the distance—this time, one that appeared to 
say, “Wait!” 

“Ahem!” observed Bob, at a loss to continue the 
conversation. 

The page boy returned, and approached the gentle¬ 
man of the newspaper. “I’ve paged Mr. Hughes, but 
I’m afraid he isn’t in the hotel, sir,” he explained. 

“Then leave my card in his box.” The gentleman 
fished out a quarter, conveyed it to the youth with a 
“Here!” and rose. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

The uniformed impertinence, by some means known 
only to page boys, conveyed the quarter to his own 
pocket without anyone’s being able to see its transit, 
as when a conjurer transfers a rabbit from your hat 
to his own bag. The gentleman flung his newspaper 
upon a chair, and went off, renouncing hopes of 
“Hughes” at last. Bob, finding conversation with the 
other at a standstill, picked up the paper and fell to 
scanning the news, not, however, without an eye out 
ovn* the paper’s edge for whatever might be trans¬ 
piring in the little world about him. 


MISS PIERFONT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 55 


A young man appeared on the horizon—a rather 
lean and cynical young man, he looked, excellently 
dressed and with the marks of the prosperous business¬ 
man to be seen by the discerning—only by them, how¬ 
ever. No show of wealth; only the perfectly tailored 
plainness that the man sure of his stability on this 
world’s ladder likes best. Bob lowered his paper and 
observed him as he took a chair; how about entering 
into conversation with this one? his movements said. 
But the young man did not notice him, and Bob’s nose 
once more returned to the printed sheets. 

“Why, hello, Kennedy!” somebody cried cordially to 
the lean young man. 

The one addressed as “Kennedy” rose with a hearty 
welcome. 

“Hello, Pierre, old boy!” he cried in return, and a 
cordial hand-shake passed between the two. 

The second young man, “Pierre,” was of an alto¬ 
gether different type from the other; his was the sensi¬ 
tive grace of the artistic. He, too, was perfectly tai¬ 
lored and entirely conventional in dress; none of the 
eccentricity affected by the poseur in his garb; and yet 
by some subtle manner or carriage he was unmistakably 
stamped. He was blond as a girl, with fine waving hair; 
his face was finely chiselled, his bearing distinguished. 
A warm friendship evidently existed between the two 
in spite of their radical difference of type. 

“How’s everything?” Kennedy the business-like, de¬ 
manded as he greeted his friend. 

“Fine!” replied Pierre the artistic. 

“How’s the picture business?” 


56 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Bob, no longer able to restrain his desire for con¬ 
versation, rose at this, laying aside his newspaper, and 
approached the two, but Pierre’s reply to Kennedy 
dampened his ardor for the moment. 

“The picture business is rotten as usual,” the young 
man was saying. “America is no country for a poor 
painter.” Whereupon Bob returned to his seat on the 
settee. 

Kennedy showed surprise. “Why,” he exclaimed, 
“It seems to me that I see the Pierre Jones girl on the 
covers of half the magazines!” At this remark Bob 
extracted a card from his pocket and made a note 
thereon, while he stole covert glances at the two and 
listened with both ears on the alert from his place at a 
little distance. 

The two young men sat down to talk the matter 
over. “Yes,” said Jones, “they won’t let me paint 
anything different. They say the public likes my 
girls’ heads, so why try and make them any different ?” 
The blond young man leaned upon his stick and shook 
his head with a melancholy shake that said, “Art for 
Art’s sake is nowhere with this sordid world!” 

Kennedy was sympathetic. “That’s the whole trouble 
with art in America,” he responded warmly. “Every¬ 
thing gets standardized—stereotyped. It’s no use 
trying to put over anything fine and original—won’t 
go. The public wants the goods with the label that 
they know already.” 

Jones warmed to his friend’s sympathy. “Exactly— 
they think they can turn out pictures and books and 
magazines like they turn out Ford cars-” 



MISS PIERPGNT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 57 


A girl, entering hurriedly, went to the morose gentle¬ 
man who was waiting beside Bob. The gentleman rose 
to greet her. 

“Oh, here you are, Connie,” she said briskly. “So 
you got here ahead of me?” 

But the morose gentleman was not to be shaken 
out of his grouch by a cheerful greeting. “My God!” 
he groaned. “Well, which was it this time—an acci¬ 
dent to your taxi, or a parade that wouldn’t let you 
cross Fifth Avenue?” With a final terriffic grunt he 
put back his watch into his pocket and humped his 
shoulders in sign of disgust. 

The girl laughed. Evidently she was used to grouches, 
and she was no more to be shaken out of her bright 
mood than he out of his disgruntlement. “You’ll 
never believe me!” she cried gayly, and as they started 
off together the gentleman was heard to reply: 

“I know I won’t. I wish to heaven they’d pass a 
special daylight-saving law for women—make them 
keep their watches one hour faster than the men’s. 
. . And his grumbles, accompanied by her 

laughter, faded out of hearing. 

The two young friends had been observing the little 
scene with some interest. After all, what did one come 
to Fashion Row for except to observe and be observed 
in return? 

“Know who that fellow was?” inquired Jones as the 
couple vanished. 

“No,” said Kennedy. 

“It was Conrad Clarke. He made a fortune back- 

55 


mg- 



58 


POLLY PREFERRED 


The entrance of another girl caused his thoughts 
and chat to drift. As this one passed before the seated 
spectators, Jones’ eyes followed her, and Kennedy ob¬ 
served : 

“Rather pretty.” 

Jones pursed his lips critically, as an artist, and 
uttered a dubious, “Hmmm!” Then he inquired of his 
friend: 

“Waiting for someone?” 

“For Rutherford’s wife,” the other replied. “She’s 
coming down from the country today.” 

Jones raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You mean 
Joe Rutherford?” he asked with interest. 

“Yes. I’m in his office, you know. Handle the bond 
business,” explained Kennedy. Jones pondered the 
matter. 

“Hm!” he exclaimed. “I met Rutherford several 
times last winter. Got quite a bit acquainted with him. 
But I didn’t know he was married.” 

Kennedy shrugged with a slight smile. “Lots of 
people don’t,” he said. “Joe’s idea of a wife’s proper 
place is rather—well, what one might call—Turkish!” 

The two men exchanged a glance of wordly wisdom 
with their smiles. 

“But what I don’t get is your part in this Turkish 
scheme of things. What part do you play, anyhow? 
Sending you around to look after his wife rather sug¬ 
gests—well-” 

Kennedy explained. “I believe Joe is preparing 
rather a big party for tonight. So when his wife wired 
to meet her at the Biltmore, he decided he had better 



MISS PIERPONT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 59 


be out of town.” And again they exchanged knowing 
smiles. 

“Ha, ha! A man tells me,” observed Jones, “that 
in the Macri tongue they have one word that means 
either husband or liar—what an economy!” And there¬ 
upon their comments upon the Ways of this world were 
sharply interrupted by the entrance of a young lady 
who walked slowly along the Row, apparently quite 
unconscious of their presence as she passed within a 
few feet of their startled stares. A repressed “Whew!” 
found its way from under the breath of each at her 
appearance. 

The young lady walked with entire un-self-conscious- 
ness, although she was the picture of grace and 
beauty—as well as of fashion. She was willowy in her 
movements, at the same time that she bore herself with 
an aloof dignity which none of the stares of the curious 
throng could disturb. A marvellous creation which 
bore the very essence of Paris in its every line garbed 
her—a gown the color of pure coral, subdued by softly 
draped lace of a dull tone that merely clouded the 
shimmering folds of silk as a fog clouds a dazzling 
sunset sky. The oddly bouffante style of this, the im¬ 
pertinent little hat, tipped up behind, the perfection 
of every detail—dainty slippers, faddish little silk 
mitts, and all—made a picture that combined the charm 
of a Bo Peep with the last word from Paris. And be¬ 
neath the drolly adorable hat was a face so appealing, 
so bewitching, that it was no wonder that repressed 
“Whew!” breathed from the young men’s lips. Com¬ 
plexion like peaches and cream—Cupid’s-bow mouth— 


60 


POLLY PREFERRED 


clustering auburn hair—deeply gray-blue eyes under 
long lashes- 

In short, the young lady was Polly. 

Her glance at the two young men was so casual as 
to be no glance at all. Bob, covered by his newspaper, 
gave no apparent heed to her; but his ears were strained 
toward the remarks of the two as they sat, staring 
open-eyed, almost open-mouthed, after the departing 
vision. 

“By George!” murmured the dazzled Jones, gazing 
as an artist may gaze at some vision of his inspiration. 
“Did you see that girl?” 

Kennedy, strained to the utmost to follow her with 
his eyes, had the nerve to reply, “I didn’t notice.” But 
he amended his fib with “Nice figure.” 

“Yes, hasn’t she!” the other rejoined rapturously. 
“And her face—charm—distinction—all the qualities 
that go to make the finest type of beauty. Wonder who 
on earth she is?” 

The lean and cynical Kennedy shrugged. “Seine 
other fellow’s wife—they always are,” he replied sagely, 
but admiration had not yet faded from his glance. 

Jones continued his speculations. Plainly, the young 
lady had set his imagination to working. 

“She looked like a Southerner to me,” he declared, 
teasing his small yellow moustache in meditation. 

Evidently this remark flashed an important signal 
to some wireless station within the brain of the alert 
Bob. He snatched out a notebook, and, diving into a 
corner of the settee, made a rapid memorandum for 
purposes known only to himself. While writing, how- 



MISS PIERPONT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 61 

ever, he kept one ear cocked for the continued conver¬ 
sation that came from the direction of the two young 
men. Their gossip ran on, keen with interest. Jones 
was saying: 

“There’s a type, now, that you see in South Caro¬ 
lina. I used to visit relatives in the South, and I know 
those girls when I see ’em. Languid, dreamy type of 
beauty—and full of the mischief, too, behind their 
dreaminess. Why, Charleston’s as full of pretty girls 
as a blackberry bush is full of berries in summer. Pick 
’em on every limb. ‘Limb’—ha, ha! ‘Limb of Satan’ 
some of ’em are, too. And the blue blood! That’s the 
South for you. Now this one that just passed us— 
typical. Real patrician stock. I bet you she’s from 
Charleston. I had a model last winter who was a 
Charleston girl-” 

Bob, sandwiching his note-taking and his sharp lis¬ 
tening, now made a final memorandum with a flourish 
of satisfaction all his own, and left the settee to slide 
into a chair beside the two men. The time had come 
for him to break in. With a loud “Ahem!” he once 
more opened attack according to his formula. 

“Excuse me,” he began, “But is this place what they 
call Fashion Row?” 

Jones, who was seated next to him, cast a cold glance 
of boredom over his shoulder and replied icily : 

“I believe so.” 

Immediately he turned back to his friend, turning a 
square shoulder against Bob to indicate that the brief 
conversation, which was not to his liking, was at an 
end. 



62 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Bob was not to be congealed. “Thanks,” he replied 
heartily. 

Kennedy was continuing the train of thought that 
Jones had started. “What a romantic place Charles¬ 
ton is, anyway!” he said. “Go down there today, and 
you feel that the old South is still alive. Beaten bis¬ 
cuits ! Whew! And all the hot breads for breakfast. 
Used to know an old fat darkey cook named Sally 
who made the best Sally Lunn you ever saw, and she 
always swore the loaf was named for her! Once I 
was there on business—I remember—Ah!” Kennedy 
broke off abruptly as once more the vision of a modern 
Bo Peep just from Paris appeared on the horizon. 

“Here comes your friend again!” he whispered. 

It was a signal from Bob that had caused Polly to 
return. Slowly, with the langorous grace that com¬ 
bined so charmingly with the air of aloof dignity, she 
again walked unconsciously past the two men. Their 
heads moved like the heads of puppets on a wire, fol¬ 
lowing her every movement. She passed; their stares 
were glued to her retreating form; suddenly, as she 
was passing Bob, he glanced up. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed with well-feigned surprise, and 
rose quickly, joining her. “How do you do, Miss Pier- 
pont?’* He emphasized the name, looking significantly 
into her eyes as he uttered it; for one flickering instant 
a puzzled look crossed her face, the hint of confusion 
showed in her manner; then at once she had com¬ 
pletely recovered her self-possession. 

“Oh, Mr. Cooley—Pm so glad to see you!” she ex¬ 
claimed with an air of cordial surprise. 


MISS PIERPONT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 63 


“Did you get my message, Miss Pierpont?” Again 
he laid heavy stress upon the name. 

Was she at a loss? If so, she contrived to hide it. 
“Oh—yes,” she replied readily. 

“What time may I see you?” he inquired. “About 
five ?” 

And her reply rang firm, “Splendid.” She promised 
it with the cordial smile of a princess gladly granting a 
royal favor, and he pushed on eagerly. 

“Will I find you upstairs—in your suite?” 

Polly gave the faintest possible little gulp, one that 
only Bob could have discerned, and once more her deli¬ 
cate voice was steady in its poise and sweetness: 

“Yes. At five. In my suite.” 

Bob wagged his head with satisfaction over the ap¬ 
pointment. Then, solicitously, he turned to inquiries 
concerning the young lady’s family. 

“I hope it’s all right with the Colonel?” he ventured, 
and his eyes telegraphed to her: “Play up and play 
steady!” 

She caught the message, but “the Colonel” drove her 
to temporize. She wanted an instant to decide who 
“the Colonel” might be. 

“Beg pardon?” she murmured to gain time. 

He rescued her. “I say, Colonel Pierpont is a proud 
man!” he declared, and she snatched at her cue. 

“Oh, Papa is ridiculously proud!” she cried, laugh¬ 
ing. Now she was playing with her eyes open. “But 
I managed to convince him,” she added. “See you at 
five—goodbye,” and the young lady was departing with 
a dainty swish of coral silk. 


64 


POLLY PREFERRED 


But he was detaching the leaf from his note-book— 
the leaf so diligently covered with his memoranda. 

“Oh! Just a minute!” he called after her. 

And, as she turned, he slipped the leaf into her hand. 

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, as if it were a casual and 
petty business detail that she perfectly understood. 
“Good-bye again!” She nodded brightly and was 
gone. 

But as Bob resumed his seat and buried himself in 
his newspaper, the two young men near by exchanged 
glances of the most penetrating significance; and with 
one accord they turned all their attention upon the 
youth on the settee whom, a few minutes before, they 
had attempted to wither with their glances. 

It was Jones 5 turn now to clear his throat and humbly 
approach Bob in the eager desire to draw him into 
conversation. But the latter was thoroughly preoccu¬ 
pied with the day’s news; he read on, cruelly unaware 
of Jones’ tentative approaches, as the artist seated 
himself beside his former snubbee. 

“Ahem!” began J ones. In vain. The news was 
altogether absorbing. 

Jones drew nearer upon the settee. “I beg your 
pardon-” he began. 

Bob half glanced up and uttered a polite but coldly 
indifferent, “Yes?” 

“I—ahem—I believe you asked me if this was Fash¬ 
ion Row,” the other continued, fairly beaming with the 
desire to please. 

Bob half turned but still maintained his interest in 
his newspaper. “Huh?” he murmured carelessly. “Oh, 



MISS PIERPONT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 65 


yes.” And once more he was buried. If he had ever 
cared to discuss Fashion Row, that time was appar¬ 
ently past; he hardly acknowledged Jones’ existence 
now. 

“I—I’m afraid I answered you rather shortly.” The 
artist urged his apology with some embarrassment. 

«J_5) 

“Oh, not at all.” Bob accepted the apology lightly, 
as if the matter were hardly worth mentioning; again 
he disappeared from sight within the pages. 

But Jones was not to be damped. He assumed a 
more bold and genial manner. 

“I was preoccupied just then with something my 
friend had said to me,” he explained. 

“It’s quite all right.” The youth with the news¬ 
paper appeared to be bored almost to the point of 
annoyance by this time; although not permitting him¬ 
self a rudeness, he raised his paper with a rattle and 
clatter that indicated very clearly that he preferred to 
be let alone. 

But Kennedy now determined to join forces with his 
friend and besiege the absorbed young man in an at¬ 
tempt to get information. He crossed to the place 
beside Jones, leaned over him, and, in a manner quite 
as solicitous as the other’s, addressed Bob. 

“Ahem!” 

Bob continued following with his eye down the stock 
market column. 

“Excuse me, sir-” 

“Me?” Bob looked up, holding his finger on the 
place in the column. 



66 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Yes,” pursued Kennedy. “May I ask who that 
young lady is that you just spoke to?” No use minc¬ 
ing matters any longer! “I fancy I’ve met her some¬ 
where.” 

A slight sign of relenting appeared on Bob’s coun¬ 
tenance. “She’s a southern girl,” he replied with pleas¬ 
ant condescension. 

The others exchanged swift and delighted glances, 
and edged even nearer, pressing toward Bob for in¬ 
formation. 

“Ah!” exclaimed Jones in triumph. “What part of 
the South?” 

“Charleston,” responded Bob carelessly. “South 
Carolina.” He smiled as if the names spoke for them¬ 
selves—as they most certainly did. 

“Aha!” breathed the two young men to one another, 
wagging their heads in profound satisfaction. 

“What did I tell you, Kennedy?” Jones cried with 
the air of an oracle proved true. Nothing is more 
deeply satisfying in this world than to have it demon¬ 
strated that you were right all along—that you may 
say “I told you so!” with all the gusto of triumph. 

Kennedy was equally delighted. “My friend guessed 
that she was from Charleston,” he explained to Bob 
affably. 

Bob was permitting himself to thaw very gradually, 
and by this time he had reached a manner of some 
warmth. He had removed his nose from his paper, and 
showed symptoms of taking up the conversation at 
last. He volunteered information now. 

“She’s a very talented actress,” he announced. 


MISS PIERPONT OF SOUTH CAROLINA 67 


Interest went up like booming stocks in the market. 
Jones’ face seemed to open all over to receive fuller 
knowledge in its eagerness; Kennedy sprang up and 
crossed to seat himself on the other side of Bob. 

“You don’t say!” he cried. 

“It’s so. But her family object to her taking it up 
professionally,” went on the informant, warming stead¬ 
ily as the others almost clung upon his words. He sat 
between them, the whole picture an amusing caricature 
of a story-teller between two children hungrily press¬ 
ing for the tale. 

“I see-” breathed Jones. And to Kennedy he 

interpolated, “Proud as Lucifer, those Charleston 
people!” while Kennedy wagged his head in eager 
agreement. 

“Yes, indeed,” assented Bob. “But she’s broken 
away at last. It would have been a crime if she 
hadn’t. She’s got a wonderful gift—wonderful. Be- 
lasco’s made her an offer but I don’t think she’s going 
to accept it,” he concluded as one having authority to 
inform. 

“But surely, Belasco-” began the amazed Jones. 

What sort of a young woman was this, indeed, to 
throw away a lifetime’s opportunity so heedlessly? 

Bob explained. “She prefers to do something in 
the movies.” 

“The movies!” For the moment the artistic Jones 
suffered a slight shock. 

But Kennedy seized upon the idea. “Just the face 
for it, don’t you think so, Pierre?” he demanded 

Jones was beginning to agree, now he thought it 




68 


POLLY PREFERRED 


over. “Yes—she’ll be a new type. What company is 
she going with?” he asked of Bob. 

“I’ye organized a special company for her. Just a 

small group of men-” 

But his tale was interrupted by Polly herself. 



CHAPTER V 


THE DAWN OF A SCREEN STAR 

In a secluded corner of one of the lounging rooms, 
Polly had been donning the sword and buckler of her 
courage. In her hand was still the memorandum slip 
that Bob had given her; upon it she read, in a few brief 
scrawls, the notes that he had made. They revealed 
to her the part she was to play, that of a Charleston 
girl, a Miss Pierpont of an old southern family of 
wealth and aristocracy. Her father was ‘The Colonel.” 
The dark man was named Kennedy; the blond was 
Pierre Jones, well-known artist. These and a few 
other bare memoranda; the rest was up to her. 

“Can I do it?” murmured Polly to herself, while a 
chilly little scare went over her for a second, creeping 
unpleasantly along her spine. But only for a second. 

“After all he’s done to lay the wires, I’m not going 
back on him!” she told herself. “Let’s see—I must 
speak with a marked southern accent. There was that 
girl named Ann-Rose—used to go to school in Brook¬ 
lyn—she came from South Carolina and she talked the 
funniest! Wonder if I can twist my tongue like her!” 

She looked into a gold-framed mirror that hung 
near, and addressed it. 

“Haow-dy-do, Miss Piehpont?” she inquired with a 
69 


70 


POLLY PREFERRED 


long drawl. “Are you feelin’s well’s when ah saw you 
last wintah?” 

Miss Pierpont apparently was feeling extremely well, 
for she smiled back at Polly from the mirror with 
gratification. 

“Ah reckon ah won’t fall daown on that!” Polly as¬ 
sured herself. She straightened the adorable imperti¬ 
nence of a hat, dabbed another dab of powder upon her 
pretty nose, and set forth. Straight for Fashion Row 
and the three young men now grouped so closely; she 
moved a trifle more briskly than at her other appear¬ 
ance, as if now she had some definite purpose in her ap¬ 
proach. Nearing them, she addressed Bob. The 
Southernness of her accent was unmistakable. 

“Aoh, Mistah Cooley,” she said. “Could I speak 
to you a moment?” 

Bob sprang to his feet. It was with difficulty that 
the other admiring youths restrained themselves from 
doing likewise. Bob moved aside to join her. 

“Certainly!” he exclaimed. “Pardon me,” he said 
to the others, and entered into conversation with Polly 
at a discreet distance—which meant a distance not too 
distant for them to be clearly overheard by Jones and 
Kennedy. 

“Tell me,” Polly drawled, low but with careful dis¬ 
tinctness. “Isn’t that gentleman youh talking to Mis¬ 
tah-” she cast a surreptitious glance at Bob’s note 

still tucked into her mitt—“Mistah Pierre Jaones?” 

“I don’t know,” Bob replied. He turned back to¬ 
ward the two. “Is either of you gentlemen named 
Jones?” he asked. 



THE DAWN OF A SCREEN STAR 


71 


Jones had already shot from his seat at hearing 
Polly’s question, and now he darted forward like a 
hungry robin at the sight of food. 

“My name is Jones,” he responded, fatuous with 
delight. 

Polly addressed him in a manner in which diffidence 
and social sureness were charmingly blended. 

“Ah reckon you’ll think Ah’m terribly rude,” she 
drawled. “Ah you Mistah Pierre Jaones, the ahtist?” 

Jones, growing more fatuously delighted with every 
instant, replied archly, “Pm afraid so.” 

“Ah thought Ah recognized you, but Ah wasn’t quite 
suah,” she went on. “Ah saw a pictchah of you once 
in some magazine.” She smiled graciously upon the 
blond young man, but with a manner of well-bred reti¬ 
cence that held her cordiality in restraint. 

“Golly, but she’s got it down fine!” Bob was whis¬ 
pering to his own thoughts alone. In bearing, in voice, 
in expression, in poise of manner, Polly was the South¬ 
ern aristocrat from top to toe—little Polly, just from 
the chorus, and formerly from Brooklyn and the 
neighborhood of the gas works ! 

Jones was almost beyond utterance. He beamed his 
pleasure. 

“Ah do admiah youh work so, Mistah Jaones—and 

Ah was wondering-” She broke off at this, seized 

with embarrassment. Her manner said, “Dear me, how 
can I go on so with a totally strange young man?” 

But Jones’ warm beam encouraged her. “Yes?” he 
murmured. 

The young lady from Charleston rallied her courage 



72 


POLLY PREFERRED 


with a charming earnestness. “Well, Ah’m going into 
the movies,” she continued in explanation of her bold¬ 
ness. “And Ah do so want to do something different— 

something ahtistic, you knaow—not—not-” She, 

halted, struggling for the word. 

Bob rushed to the rescue. 

“Stereotyped,” he threw to her like a life-line. 

She turned to him with a flashing smile. 

“That’s it exactly!” she exclaimed. And then, “Oh, 
Mistah Cooley,” she went on eagerly. “Why can’t 
you get Mistah Jaones to be ouh Aht Director, or what¬ 
ever it’s called?” 

Kennedy had been left out of this, and he had been 
seated where the others left him, fidgeting with both 
hands and feet, and making small darts forward as if 
on the verge of breaking into the engrossing conversa¬ 
tion. Now at last he could stand it no longer; he 
rose, and joined his friend whose attention he had in 
vain been trying to attract. 

Bob was saying, “Well, of course-” 

And Jones was replying to Miss Pierpont, “It’s 
really very nice of you to want me-” 

When Kennedy, at last determining to take matters 
into his own hands and bring himself into the conver¬ 
sation, broke in: 

“Yes, I should think you’d be awfully good at that 
sort of thing, Pierre.” Having thus drawn attention 
to his presence, he turned resolutely to Polly. “How 
do you do?” he said, since no one would introduce 
him. “My name is Kennedy.” 

Polly now directed her cordiality to him. 





THE DAWN OF A SCREEN STAR 


73 


“Aoh, ah you an ahtist, too?” she inquired with an 
adorable smile. 

“No,” he explained with a gesture of modesty. “I’m 
just one of those dull financial fellows.” This re¬ 
minder of a fact that Bob had already made out al¬ 
most cost that youth his mask of indifference; for an 
instant of flashing eyes and indrawn breath he came 
dangerously near an excessive display of pleasure. 

“Ooh!” drawled Polly carelessly. 

Bob recovered. “Oh, but they have their uses!” he 
exclaimed with an air of kind patronage toward Ken¬ 
nedy. “Even picture stars need them sometimes.” 

Polly, wholly mistress of the situation by this time, 
stood in the midst of the three admiring men, smiling 
up charmingly at them like a belle at a ball; she toyed 
lightly with a long-stemmed rose which she carried; she 
modestly permitted the tiniest of feet to appear now and 
then, peeping from under her silk gown; she carried on 
small talk with a graceful ease, while they hovered like 
bees around the honey bush. For some minutes mat¬ 
ters ran without a hitch; then, by a slip of memory, 
Polly observed: 

“Ah meet so few ahtists or men who really do things 
up in my quiet little cohneh of the world-” 

Bob, alarmed at the slip, corrected her: 

“Down, you mean.” 

She bit her lip in alarm. What had she done? “Eh?” 
she inquired nervously. 

“Charleston is down said Bob. If he had let the 
slip pass it might never have been noticed; his calling 
attention to it, however, was the worst thing he could 



74 


POLLY PREFERRED 


have done, and as Polly saw glances of misgiving pass 
over the other faces she rallied her wits. 

She broke into a peal of merry laughter. 

“Of couhse!” she cried. “Isn’t that amusing of me! 
But Ah reckon soon’s anybody gets carried away by 
the movies they fohget to keep the home fiahs buhning! 
Ah must have thought Ah was jn Hollywood already! 
That’s a good joke on me—Ah must have caught the 
movie contagion mighty bad!” 

She had veered straight to safety. The others, fall¬ 
ing in with her mood, laughed heartily at her little joke 
on herself, and Kennedy found his opportunity. 

“We’ve been hearing with a lot of interest about 
your screen career,” he told her. “Everybody has a 
touch of the same contagion nowadays—even if they 
haven’t got it quite badly enough to forget which 
direction their birthplace lies! Won’t you tell us about 
your ambition? What style of parts you’re hoping 
to play, and all about it.” 

“Miss Pierpont is settled on one thing,” put in Bob 
jovially. “Whatever she is—whether she makes her 
fame as a Broken Blossom, or a Suds, or a Little Lord 
Fauntleroy, or an Orphan of the Storm—at any rate, 
she refuses to be a vamp!” 

They all laughed as Polly smiled up at them. The 
idea of this dainty Paris-ized edition of Bo Peep as a 
vamp was certainly humorous! These little jokes that 
were passing among the group were drawing it very 
close into a relation of merry intimacy. 

“No, befoh Ah play a vamp Ah reckon Ah’ve got to 
take a correspondence couhse in wickedness,” Polly 


THE DAWN OF A SCREEN STAR 


75 


said. Then, turning to Bob with a sudden earnest¬ 
ness, she demanded: 

“Oh, Mistah Cooley, why can’t we have men like 
Mistah Jaones and Mistah Kennedy on our Boahd of 
Directahs? Their ideas and opinions would be of such 
value—so—so-” 

“Unconventional!” hastened Bob. 

“That’s it!” cried Polly warmly. 

Alert interest showed on the countenances of the 
other two. “What is the situation, anyhow?” asked 
Kennedy in his business-like manner. But Bob shook 
his head. 

“It’s quite impossible,” he said. “You can’t throw 
over the men you’ve got, Miss Pierpont. You see, 
they’re counting on big returns. Of course, I admit 
they’re a little-” he hesitated. 

“They’re moss-backs!” Polly put in, and a scorn¬ 
ful pout accompanied the words. “What we need is 
somebody with ideas that wehn’t packed in the Ahk 
with moth-balls!” 

Another laugh greeted her pretty scorn, and Jones 
took up the situation with sympathy. 

“That’s a pity!” he cried. “Modern things for 
modern days 1” 

“Yes, isn’t it a shame!” Polly sighed. 

Jones’ passion for the new in art was fired by the 
mere suggestion of the situation. “I do believe,” he 
said, “that this is just the moment to do something 
artistic—beautiful settings—fresh ideas— i —” 

Polly interrupted in her delight. 

“Oh, Mistah Cooley, you must talk to them all 





76 


POLLY PREFERRED 


abaout Mistah Jaones—that is, if he’d be interested in 
doing some wohk of that kind?” She appealed to Jones. 

He smiled down upon her. “I really think I should,” 
he replied, and, in spite of his smile, his tone was very 
serious. 

“That settles it!” she exclaimed. “If they can’t 
see it Ah’ll throw them ovah!” 

Bob reproved her gravely as if she had been an im¬ 
pulsive child and he her grandfather. “Oh, you can’t 
do that! Of course, if I could get a few young men on 
the Board of Directors it would make everything 
easier, though.” 

“Oh, please do try!” Polly urged him. 

He continued discussing the matter with her while 
the others listened intently. 

“It’s your own fault, Miss Pierpont. If you hadn’t 
made such marvellous screen tests I might pry some 
of those old barnacles loose from their stock,” he re¬ 
proached her flatteringly. 

Kennedy’s business acumen was wide awake by this 
time. “Then the tests were good, eh?” he inquired, 
scenting, like the true business man, the marketable 
commodity—whether an attractive bond, a popular 
kind of grape-fruit, or a pretty face, it’s all in the 
market. 

Bob turned to him with a smile. “I wouldn’t dare 
tell you in front of her,” he said. “These stars are 
hard enough to manage as it is!” And again the inti¬ 
mate laugh went round the group, drawing them closer 
in a chummy friendliness at each time that it passed. 

“Aoh, that isn’t fair;” Polly reproached Bob mer- 


THE DAWN OF A SCREEN STAR 


1 7 


rily, shaking a pretty forefinger at him as it peeped 
forth from the long silk mitts, the very latest Paris 
word. Not only in dress but in manner did she some¬ 
how blend the utmost in Paris fashion with the quaint¬ 
ness of Bo Peep. No one watching her could have 
doubted Bob’s statement made so few days before as 
he looked at her in her shabby little black gown, with 
the background of the Automat for a setting: 

“You’ve got everything,” he had said. “Looks—* 
charm—magnetism—personality.” 

These two young men of the world who were ob¬ 
serving her now for the first time may not have put 
it into words, but their summary was quite the same 
in gist as they watched her departure. 

“Ah’ll leave you-all,” she said merrily. “And then 
Mistah Cooley can say anything he likes abaout me. 
Good aftehnoon, gentlemen.” 

Jones, quite unable to see her depart so soon without 
an effort to hold her, strode to her side as she was 
leaving. 

“Have you had tea?” he asked. 

Polly wavered. She wasn’t quite sure what was her 
best card to play at this stage of the game—and be¬ 
sides, she was desperately hungry. The mere word 
“tea” caused a fragrant whiff to arise in her imagi¬ 
nation—she saw an instantaneous vision of triangular 
sandwiches on dainty china, of “the tray” on which 
every form and tint of French pastries would be ranged 
for her to choose. . . . The vision passed. 

Bob was signalling in desperate haste. “No!” said 
the forbidding signal. 


78 


POLLY PREFERRED 


With a smile of more gratitude than Jones guessed, 
she turned to him—and he did not hear her smothered 
and very hungry sigh. “Thank you,” she said charm¬ 
ingly, “but Ah’m expecting a scenario writah. 

Mistah, Cooley,” she added, turning to Bob, “Mistah 
Jaones in the one ahtist Ah really want. If you could 
fix it sao that he’d be on the Boahd of Directahs—Ah 
don’t knaow haow those things ah done, but Ah do 
knaow what soht of men Ah could turn to foh helpful 
ideas and sympathetic advice. Good-bye—Ah’m 
dreadfully late—Ah’ll see you-all again, Ah haope. 
Good-bye.” 

She was gone. The men, deserted, stood looking at 
each other and thinking of nothing but Polly. 

“She’s perfectly charming!” Kennedy exclaimed. 

“If they can only get that personality of hers on 
the screen-” Jones burst forth. 

Kennedy, although the shrewd business man instead 
of the temperamental artist, was quite as enthusiastic 
after his own manner. “Yes, she certainly ought to be 
a success,” he declared. He turned to Bob with a keen 
glance. “You say the stock is very closely held?” 

“Very—very,” replied Bob pursing his lips with an 
expression that seemed to indicate its closeness. He 
paused thoughtfully. “Still,” he went on, “of course 
there might be a chance-” 

But further discussion of this remarkable stock was 
clipped off short by the entrance of a smart-looking 
woman of about thirty-five. She was dressed in ex¬ 
cellent taste and the best of materials and tailoring, 
but conservatism was stamped upon her all over—her 




THE DAWN OF A SCREEN STAR 


79 


bearing, her inconspicuous street dress, her face itself 
bespoke the woman who prefers a quiet life and culti¬ 
vated environment rather than gayety and fashion. A 
bell-boy accompanied her, carrying her small dressing- 
case. 

“Hello, here’s Mrs. Rutherford!” cried Kennedy, 
stepping forward to greet her. 

“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Kennedy,” she responded. 
Evidently good friendship existed between the two. 
“Where’s Joe?” was her prompt query. 

“He—ah—he—he was called away on business,” 
stammered Kennedy. 

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Not again?” 

“He left you this note.” Kennedy fumbled among 
papers in his pocket and produced the note with an 
air of relief. He was shifting the deceit to Ruther¬ 
ford’s shoulders now. 

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed in disappointment. She 
read the note while Kennedy observed her nervously 
and the others disengaged themselves to chat apart. 

As she finished reading, “Well, I shall probably go 
back on the night train now,” she said, and turned 
to the bell-boy, handing him a coin. 

“Take that bag to the checkroom,” she gave orders, 
“and tell them it’s Mrs. Rutherford’s. . . . Dear 

me!” she exclaimed, turning back to Kennedy for sym¬ 
pathy, “I did want to see Joe about Billy.” 

The bell-boy departed with the bag, the coin, and 
a “Yes, ma’am, thank you,” while Kennedy asked with 
interest: 

“How is the little chap?” 


80 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“He’s in a summer camp,” she replied. “Joe in¬ 
sisted on sending him—said it would make a man of 
him to bandage his own fingers when he cut them, and 
to go swimming without my apron string tied to him 
to pull him back to shore. But Billy doesn’t like the 
place—and besides, I miss him horribly.” 

Kennedy smiled with a look of comprehension. “Yes, 
yes, of course you do,” he responded. “By the way, 
do you know Pierre Jones?” He turned to his friend, 
drawing him into the conversation. He would find it 
a bit easier to break off the confession of Mrs. Ruther¬ 
ford’s worries. She wasn’t disagreeable about it— 
quite the contrary; but he really was sorry for her, 
she was an all-right little woman, and he hated to hear 
of her troubles. 

Jones came forward, and the two acknowledged 
Kennedy’s introduction. “And Mr. Cooley?” Kennedy 
continued, and two more bows made the group com¬ 
plete. Now they would have some small-talk, Kennedy 
congratulated himself, and Sophie Rutherford would 
forget Joe’s absence. But the intrigued Jones could 
not long drop his consuming topic. As soon as he 
had bowed to Mrs. Rutherford he turned back to Bob. 

“I say, Mr. Cooley, where can we meet and talk this 
proposition over?” he demanded. 

Bob hesitated. “Why—I-” 

“Oh, if I’m interrupting business-!” Sophie 

Rutherford broke in pleasantly. 

“Not at all,” Jones responded apologetically. 
“Kennedy and I are interested in a—a-” 

“A piece of property,” Bob assisted him. 





THE DAWN OF A SCREEN STAR 


81 


“Yes P’ cried Jones. “And a beautiful piece of 
property!” 

Sophie turned to her friend Kennedy. “Is it some¬ 
thing Joe is interested in, too?” 

“No,” Kennedy replied, and, with profound signifi¬ 
cance, he added, “This is one that Joe has missed.” 

Fortunately his meaning Was lost upon poor Mrs. 
Rutherford, and she was left to picture merely some 
valuable real estate tract that the astute Joe had 
failed to seize. Probably she made a mental note to 
suggest to her absent spouse that he look into this 
“beautiful piece of property” in which others were in¬ 
vesting. Jones, fidgeting restlessly and striving to 
break away, at length bowed with a “Good afternoon, 
Mrs. Rutherford,” and made a courtly departure, his 
slender elegance and air of deep regret at leaving 
atoning in full for the fact. Jones, tall, graceful and 
blond, with the features of an aristocrat, “could do a 
rude thing so that you felt as if you’d been made love 
to,” one of his feminine admirers had once said. 

“Now—” he began, linking his arm into Bob’s and 
drawing him away. “Let’s arrange about this thing 
at once. About Miss Pierpont-” 

They passed from hearing, Kennedy looking en¬ 
viously after them. He too wanted to go off and dis¬ 
cuss Miss Pierpont! Miss Pierpont, in fact, was the 
one topic worth discussing at present. But he had 
Joe Rutherford’s w r ife and her worries on his hands, 
no mistake about that, no getting out of it, either. 
She was seating herself on the settee; and, a trifle 
lingeringly, Kennedy took the seat beside her. 



82 


POLLY PREFERRED 


At the moment of their departure from Fashion 
Row, Bob and Jones met another man entering. He 
was a heavy, gross, rather over-dressed person of 
middle years; Bob cast a puzzled look at him, as if 
something in the man’s appearance struck him as 
familiar. Then the two young men vanished, and the 
newcomer, puffing and wheezing, passed down the row 
and vanished also. 


CHAPTER VI 


HUNGRY BUT TRIUMPHANT 

Sophie Rutherford and Kennedy were alone, free 
to continue their chat in confidence—a confidence that 
Kennedy did not altogether relish. 

“Now, Mr. Kennedy,” she began gravely. “Where 
is Joe, really?” 

He mustered his courage to face the probable cross¬ 
questioning that loomed before him. “Why, Mrs. 
Rutherford,” he began protestingly, “you surely don’t 
think-” 

She interrupted. This serious, matter-of-fact 
woman, devoid of frills and furbelows as to both dress 
and mind, was not one to be put off with a little easy 
jollying, Kennedy realized. She was quiet, firm, self- 
contained, and penetrating of insight. She would 
probe straight to the root of a matter. 

“I know Joe pretty well,” she told him, “and I know 
how women have spoiled him—and how he enjoys it.” 
She was almost brutally frank; she showed no excite¬ 
ment, none of the hysterical grief of many neglected 
and abused wives, but, with a simple dignity, she refused 
to veil the truth by any graceful draperies of blind 
faith. 

Kennedy, however, continued his feeble protests. He 
knew only too well that he was not fooling her any 
83 



POLLY PREFERRED 


more than Joe had; but he felt bound to Rutherford 
to make as good a case as possible for him, whether 
he succeeded in convincing Rutherford’s wife or not. 
At least he would have done his part—by both of 
them. 

“It’s not surprising that people make a fuss over 
Joe,” he said. “He’s a perfect marvel in business. 
Why, I know dozens of men who would take his advice 
blindly about an investment. I’m sure I would!” His 
enthusiasm for Joe’s genius on “the Street” warmed 
as he spoke; he wound up with a genuine ring in his 
voice. But Sophie again drove straight to the point 
with her disconcerting clearness. 

“His business gifts aren’t the ones that Joe is 
proudest of,” she said coldly. “It’s as a ladies’ man 
that he really admires himself. His vanity in that 
direction is simply colossal!” She couldn’t restrain a 
slight smile as the recollection of several instances of 
this colossal vanity flashed before her. 

Kennedy fell in with the smile. “I wish all wives 
could talk of their husbands’ failings so good- 
naturedly,” he said. He felt a genuine admiration for 
the poise and keenness of this ill-treated wife; no gush 
and mush, no sobs and moans, no anger—just straight 
common sense. That was Sophie Rutherford all over. 
His admiration was to increase at the penetrating wit 
of her next remark. 

“I’ve noticed,” she said, “that the surest test of 
one’s social standing is whether one treats infidelity as 
a tragedy or a comedy.” A whole essay on unhappy 
matrimony in that one pithy sentence! 


HUNGRY BUT TRIUMPHANT 


85 


He laughed. “That’s a great line! Ought to write 
a play around it.” 

She "went on. ‘‘But at times Joe does put quite a 
strain on my good breeding,” she said. “He really 
should remember that I’ve a little red blood mixed 
with the blue.” 

He laughed heartily at this. Really, she was grow¬ 
ing rather good company now that she was treating 
her situation with witty satire rather than anxiety. 
“How about some tea?” he proposed. Miss Pierpont 
was gone—and a clever woman of the world, even 
though thirty-five and not a beauty, could make the 
tea-table a very agreeable spot. 

She accepted the invitation with gratitude and phil¬ 
osophy. If your husband will neglect you, and an at¬ 
tractive young man offers to show you pleasant atten¬ 
tion in his place, why not be philosophical about it, 
indeed ? 

“That would be nice,” she said, and they both rose. 

“Red blood mixed with the blue—ha, ha!—that’s 
good!” he repeated appreciatively as they went off 
toward the tea-room together in good spirits. 

“It may flame up some day,” Sophie observed, “and 
when it does—well, there’ll be some fireworks!” 

This section of Fashion Row remained deserted for 
some minutes; then there once more dawned on its 
horizon our enterprising young friend, Mr. Robert 
Cooley. His air of strict attention to business carried 
the impression that he was full of new enterprise; 
evidently he was no casual loafer, bent on amusing 
himself with the passing show, but altogether the youth 


86 


POLLY PREFERRED 


of affairs. He seated himself upon the settee as before, 
and gave attention to his own thoughts. 

Two young ladies entered and passed along the 
Row, chattering like sparrows at daybreak. 

“I don’t like her,” gabbled the first one, giving a 
careful fluff-up to the bobbed hair that clustered over 
her ears. “She’s such an awful cat. Never has a 
good word to say for anyone.” She opened a tiny 
vanity case as she walked and peeped in the mirror 
therein. 

“No, she hasn’t has she?” agreed the other, opening 
her vanity case also, and giving a surreptitious dab to 
her lips with the little red stick. 

“And that fellow she’s engaged to!” went on the 
first. “What a dumb-bell he turned out to be!” Fluff, 
fluff, fluffity-fluff. 

“Oh, isn’t he terrible!” assented Number Two. Dab, 

dab, dabbity-dab. “I should—say-so-” Her 

words were almost indistinguishable as she touched up 
her lips vigorously with the stick. 

“And that frumpy-looking mother of hers—she’s 
just as bad as her daughter. Always picking people 
to pieces!” Chattering, gossiping, peeping in the 
mirror, fluffing hair and dabbing lips, they passed on, 
while the unnamed friend was torn to bits like a piece 
of paper and scattered behind them as they passed. 
Upon their vanishing, another young lady entered— 
cautiously; glancing carefully around to make sure 
that no one but Bob was near; assured of this, she 
joined him and took the seat beside him on the settee. 

The two, seated there, did not utter a word for many 




HUNGRY BUT TRIUMPHANT 


87 


seconds. They gazed at each other in a silence that 
was more significant than all the words in the Una¬ 
bridged Dictionary. At last, simultaneously, they 
heaved a long sigh—half of relief, half of perplexity. 

“Well, Miss Pierpont!” said he. 

“Well, Mr. Business Manager!” she replied. 

And again they heaved the long simultaneous sigh; 
and then, of one accord, they broke into light laughter. 

“There’s no doubt about your being an actress!” 
he declared. 

“Was it all right?” she asked eagerly. “Oh, I 
thought maybe I might overdo it-” 

“Was it all right! You almost made me believe you 
were from the South! Why, I could see one of those 
old Southern mansions with the pillars, and taste the 
sweet potatoes mashed and baked with a—what-d’you 
call it—a meringue—and hear one of those old-time 
darkey songs! Why, you had me fooled—I’m guessing 
yet whether you really are Brooklyn and the gas tanks, 
or Charleston with molasses on your tongue!” 

She laughed in delight, and flushed at his compli¬ 
ments. “Oh, I’m so glad!” she cried, clasping her little 
mitted hands. “I thought up a Southern girl I used 
to know—Ann-Rose—I went to school with her— and 
then I just tried to be Ann-Rose-” 

“That’s the secret of all good acting, I guess—not 
to be yourself and try to act —but just to try to be 
the other person. You’ve got it in you. By Jove, 
I’m sure we’re going to make good on this proposi¬ 
tion-” 


“Were they really interested, do you think?” 





88 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“You bet they were! And are , too. Why, after 
you’d gone they couldn’t talk about anything else. 
They’ve fallen for you from the word Go. They’re 
ready to go any length, as things look just now.” 

Polly leaned back with an air of relief. “And I 
thought we weren’t even going to get a nibble!” 

“Why, we’ve only been at it a few hours. I thought 
it might take several days!” Bob cried. He had the 
sane miner’s outlook; you don’t strike a rich vein every 
day in the week, he knew, and he had been prepared 
for a much longer and more discouraging struggle 
than this had proved. 

But Polly’s first relief in finding that she had played 
her role successfully was giving way to misgiving 
again. She hadn’t quite the nerve stamina of this 
young man of bold enterprise; and besides, it’s not 
the easiest thing in the world to keep up one’s pluck 
when it’s tea-time and one hasn’t had a bite since 
breakfast. Not only the inner man but the inner 
woman likewise needs refreshment to carry on; it may 
be slightly disillusioning to think of the most spiritu- 
elle of maidens as needing a ham sandwich, but such 
is often the case. 

“But suppose you do get them interested,” she 
doubted, “how are you going to go on? You haven’t 
any office!” 

He wagged his head with an air of “Leave it to me!” 
“Offices are easy to get!” he declared mysteriously. 
“That is, on Saturday afternoons!” 

Still her misgivings held. “But assuming you do 
get the men and the office—won’t they all see that you 


HUNGRY BUT TRIUMPHANT 


89 


haven’t anything to sell —no equipment—no studio— 
no scenario—nothing?” 

He looked her and her doubts firmly in the face. “I 
have something to sell!” he told her. “You. I’m put¬ 
ting you on the auction block just as if you were a 
slave. I’m going to incorporate you 4 Polly Pierpont’ 
—and sell shares in you! Just think—here we are— 
just two nobodies—but watch us! We’re going up 
fast!” 

Again she felt the wave of his enthusiasm and con¬ 
viction wash over her, but the inner woman was still 
demanding its rights. 

“Are you going to try any more this afternoon?” 
she asked in rather a pitiful tone, bound to stand on 
the burning deck if necessary, but greatly wishing that 
someone would hand her a sandwich while she stood 
there. 

“Oh, yes!” Bob replied warmly, wholly unconscious 
of her long-suffering. He was just getting his sleeves 
rolled up, metaphorically speaking. He was just 
started upon the game. “This is just the right time,” 
he went on. “The important men are beginning to 
drop in—the boys from down-town.” 

She sighed despairingly now, and cast forlorn eyes 
at him. “I’m getting terribly hungry!” she confessed 
at last. “I was too excited to eat a bite of lunch. If 
you knew what it cost me to refuse to go to tea with 
‘Mistah Jaones’ you’d have a heart now!” 

“Oh, say, that’s a shame!” he cried with quick sym¬ 
pathy. 64 You poor little dar—thing!” he corrected 
himself quickly, as if a more tender word had, all of 


90 


POLLY PREFERRED 


itself, jumped to his lips. “I never meant to starve 
my merchandise to death! Look here—stick it out a 
little longer, can you?—till we get through work here 
—and then I’ll take you around to the Automat and 
give you a square meal.” 

“The Automat!” groaned Polly, with a glance that 
covered her elegant coral silk and champagne lace 
draperies. “In this dress !” 

He laughed. “You can’t have the dress for keeps, 
anyway. I’ll have to return it as soon as we can 
spare it. I only borrowed it, you know, to have it 
photographed for The Pictorial Review. Hello !” He 
sprang to his feet as someone in the distance caught 
his eye. “I know who that man is now! Couldn’t 
place him when I saw him awhile ago. Hurry, come 
back this way!” he whispered to her. 

“Another one?” she inquired wearily. But at once 
she summoned her vigor. She rose, and walked lightly 
along the Row. 

“Yes.” Bob kept his voice lowered. “It’s Nathan,” 
he said, “the big advertising man. You know—syn¬ 
dicate stuff. Oh, if I could only land him!” 

Polly couldn’t keep back a smile as she looked at his 
eagerness. “I never saw anything look as hungry and 
determined as you, except an old hunting cat we used 
to have when she saw a fat little bird!” she told him 
in an aside, as they continued their unconscious saunter. 

Nathan, the heavy and puffy man of middle years 
who had wheezed his way along the Row a short time 
before, now entered with a young man who might, 
judging from his appearance, have been a clerk. 


HUNGRY BUT TRIUMPHANT 


91 


“You know him by sight, don’t you, Burton?” our 
young conspirators overheard Nathan say. 

“Oh, yes, sir,” Burton replied. 

Bob whispered hopefully to Polly. “I think he’s 
going to sit down.” 

“Then just look around,” Nathan went on, “and 
see if you can find him. I’ll wait here.” 

“Yes, sir, I will,” responded the obedient Burton, 
and disappeared while Nathan looked about for an 
ample chair in which to wait. 

“Right in front of our shop window!” Polly ex¬ 
citedly whispered, forgetting her hunger, her spirits 
rising high again at a renewal of these thrilling adven¬ 
tures. She slipped away, preparatory to the new 
attack. 

Nathan, puffing and snorting himself into the most 
capacious chair in sight, settled down to wait alone. 
His mind was apparently well engrossed in his own 
affairs. Upon this Bob turned carelessly where Polly 
left him and sauntered back, passing Nathan with an 
air of complete unconsciousness, casually taking the 
chair which stood near him, and, flinging himself into 
it, opened his newspaper once more. 

For moments Bob read absorbedly and Nathan in¬ 
terested himself in his own affairs. At last, in the 
most casual manner, Bob turned toward his neighbor. 

“Excuse me, sir,” he began, “but is this what they 
call Fashion Row?” 

Nathan started from his thoughts. “Eh?” he 
grunted. “Yes—yes, I think so.” And he turned 
away, bringing the conversation to a quick close. 


92 


POLLY PREFERRED 


But a secret signal had passed from Bob to the 
distant Polly, who awaited her cue from behind a wall 
of palms, and she now entered this part of the Row, 
walking with the languid hauteur of Miss Pierpont. 
Nathan’s eye fell upon her indifferently—she was 
merely one of the passing multitude for that first in¬ 
stant—then, as those same eyes took her in more fulty, 
something woke in them—woke and observed. They 
narrowed to slits of appreciation. 

His awakening interest was not lost upon Bob, al¬ 
though that young man showed no consciousness of it 
or of Nathan himself. Seeming to be suddenly aware 
of Polly’s approach, he jumped to his feet. 

“Oh—Miss Pierpont-” he cried. 

The young lady gave him a languid, gracious nod. 
“I’ll be right back, Mr. Cooley,” she said, and passed 
on. 

Nathan’s slits of eyes greedily took her in as she 
vanished from sight. They followed unto the last 
flutter of coral silk draperies. Then he turned fully 
to Bob. 

“Did you ask me if this was Fashion Row?” he in¬ 
quired, all his interest now centered in the young man 
who had been privileged to address the dazzling coral 
vision. He hitched his chair nearer to his neighbor 
as he spoke. 

“Eh?” Bob casually inquired. “Oh, yes—yes.” He 
barely recalled his question, it would appear. 

But Nathan was now fully launched upon conversa¬ 
tion. “It’s the new parade,” he explained in the 
friendliest manner. “The parade for the pretty ladies 



HUNGRY BUT TRIUMPHANT 


93 


in their pretty dresses. Rather after the style of Pea¬ 
cock Alley in the Waldorf—show promenade, you 
know.” 

“So I’ve heard,” Bob replied, but he did not permit 
himself to show any especial interest in the conversa¬ 
tion. Frighten off your bird at first, he told himself, 
and after that you’ve got to let it make all the ad¬ 
vances itself. 

Nathan wheezed a few seconds in an embarrassed 
effort to get at the point. There was an unapproach¬ 
able something about the young man. Then he went 
at the matter directly. 

“I’ll bet it hasn’t seen many more attractive ones,” 
he declared, “than that young lady who just passed!” 
Now, he wondered, would the young fellow open up! 

Bob smiled pleasantly. “No indeed.” He endorsed 
Mr. Nathan’s opinion heartily enough, but showed no 
signs of illumining him further. 

Nathan hitched his chair a trifle closer, wheezed a 
bit more, hesitated, then once more went straight to 
the point: 

“Who is she?” he demanded. 

“Who is she? Why, a southern girl,” the young 
man replied. He was polite to the older man, but 
evidently he no longer cared for conversation. 
“Charleston, she comes from—South Carolina.” 

At that Nathan slapped his broad knee vigorously. 
“I knew it!” he cried. “Real class! I spotted that 
right off. She’d be a good type to use in advertising 
work. Wears gowns well.” With all of the adver¬ 
tising man’s passion for his own business, he saw one 


94 


POLLY PREFERRED 


thing and just one in the radiant vision of Polly— 
and that thing was a good ad. 

The young man’s response, although courteous, 
was chilly. “I’m sorry,” he replied, “but I don’t think 
there’s a chance. The young lady is going into the 
movies.” 

“The movies?” inquired Nathan with interest. 

“Ye y s.” Bob turned to him more fully now, and the 
casualness fell from his manner and he proceeded to 
set forth the plan, with a sort of unconscious enthu¬ 
siasm, as though carried away by it to the point of 
confiding even in a total stranger. “You see, we’re 
forming a special company, a high-class proposition, 
just to launch Miss Pierpont on the screen. She has 
a talent that’s so remarkable that all the experienced 
people who have seen her tests say the thing’s a walk¬ 
over. But it’s been stiff work going up against her 
old-time aristocratic southern family and their preju¬ 
dices—especially the Colonel! By George, if Colonel 
Pierpont ever sees his daughter a film star I’m afraid 
there’ll be a rush of blood to the head!” 

“Ha-ha!” Nathan laughed appreciatively. Then 
his eyes tightened again with all of the shrewd business 
man’s alertness. 

“But a company like that ought to clean up a pile, 
if you’ve got the sole rights in an article like that young 
lady!” he wheezed with warming enthusiasm. “Say, 
it sounds like a mighty interesting little proposition!” 
He hitched his chair even closer, and leaned toward 
Bob, boring keenly into his eyes. “Look here,” he 
said. “I’d like to hear the details. Mind?” 


HUNGRY BUT TRIUMPHANT 


95 


“Certainly not, if you’re interested,” Bob replied, 
and launched into the plan for starring Miss Pierpont. 
Closer and closer edged the astute Nathan in his in¬ 
terest. 

And Polly, passing near but unseen by the two, 
overheard Nathan’s words a little later: 

“You know, I wouldn’t mind coming in on the thing 
if it’s all it looks to be. Where can I see you to go 
over it further?” 

“My office,” Bob said, is room 2104 in the Skyrocket 
Building. You can find me there on Saturday after¬ 
noon—business too pressing these days to take even 
Saturday afternoons off—make hay while the sun 
shines, eh? Yes—it’s shining on this little scheme, as 
you’ll see. Glad to let you have a look at the hay¬ 
making, at least. Some other interested parties are 
going to meet me there on the same date. Let us 
say at . .” 

Polly gasped, all to herself, and then smiled broadly. 
“He’s landed that one, too—and he’s acquired an 
office, all in a jiffy! He’s nothing less than a genius! 
But oh, dear me, shall I ever have anything to eat?” 


CHAPTER VII 


ROBERT COOLEY, MAN OF AFFAIRS 

It was Saturday afternoon, and Morris, the office 
boy, was closing up the room in which Moseley and 
Webb carried on their business of dealing in ladies’ 
silk underwear. Until three days before, Bob Cooley 
had been a salesman for this prosperous firm, and he 
knew the office as he knew his home. High upon one 
of the expensive floors of a fine skyscraper, the window 
gazed forth disdainfully upon those who were obliged 
to cling to humbler levels, reaching to gather in a 
magnificent view of the great city’s distances. Im¬ 
posing office furniture stood about, the best of mahog¬ 
any, and a rich rug covered the floor. On one side 
was the door leading to the building’s corridor; op¬ 
posite, the door to an inner office with “Private” 
importantly announcing its exclusiveness. 

Morris, long and lanky, hurried about in his haste 
to close the office and get away. His arms and legs 
got in the way of his hurrying; Morris was the kind 
of boy that has more arms and legs than other people, 
and they all seemed to get tangled. He rattled the 
window to make sure it was tightly closed; he felt of 
the desks for the same purpose; he fumbled in his 
pocket for the key, and made a simultaneous reach for 
his hat with the other hand, determined not to lose a 
96 


ROBERT COOLEY, MAN OF AFFAIRS 97 

second. He had just grabbed his hat from the rack 
when the telephone rang. 

“Oh, there!” he wailed in an aggrieved tone, and 
shook a fist at the burring bell which was delaying 
him from getting off. In disgust he went back to the 
desk where the extension stood. 

“Hello!” he bellowed into the transmitter. It was 
anything but a cordial greeting that he offered the un¬ 
known at the other end of the line. “No, he ain’t 
here,” he replied to a question about his employer. 
“He’s gone for the day. Everybody’s gone. I’m goin’ 
too, just lockin’ up now. It’s Saturday afternoon. 
Yes’m, but—” he paused for an instant to listen to the 
urgent inquiries. “They’ve all—yes’m, I know, but— 
oh, say, have a heart!” he cried desperately. “You’re 
makin’ me miss my train and I live way out in Joisey! 
I don’t know nothin’ about your order—No, ma’am, 
if they do I’ll ask them to call you up. Eh? One 
gross of ladies’ silk vests and two gross of the patent 
combinations? Yes, ma’am. What’s that number? 
Melrose 7824? All right—got it. Good-bye!” 

With a clatter of disgust he hung up the receiver 
and was about to make a dash for the door when he 
found himself confronted by a young man who had 
just entered—a busy-looking and laden young man, 
carrying a large flat parcel suggestive of garments; 
also two other boxes, one higher and suggestive of a 
hat, perhaps; and above all, a projection machine 
such as is familiar to everyone who knows the mechan¬ 
ism of the movies. The young man, red and perspiring, 
set his load down and paused to mop his brow. 


98 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Hello, Mr. Cooley!” Morris cried, his bad temper 
blowing away on the instant. “Thought you’d left 
us!” He came forward with the grace of a long¬ 
necked goose, but his pleasure was genuine. 

“So I have,” replied Bob,glancingaroundattheoffice 
which had so recently been home to him, from which 
he had been ignominously fired so short a time before 
—only on the morning of that red letter day upon 
which he had first met Polly in the Automat. Moseley 
and Webb had been his employers; it was because he 
hadn’t successfully pushed their silk underwear that 
he had lost his job and been obliged to seek an Auto¬ 
mat lunch. What a lot had happened since that hour! 
And now here he was, back to carry out a scheme that 
had been hatched in that fertile brain of his while he 
was roping in his victims of Fashion Row. He knew 
the habits of Moseley and Webb, their comings and 
goings; he knew that their office was sure to be deserted 
except by Morris on a Saturday afternoon. And the 
office had just the touch of expensiveness that he 
wanted for carrying out his plot. So here he was— 
plot, properties and all- 

“I’ve come to borrow the office for the afternoon, 
Morris,” he explained. “I saw Mr. Webb and he said 
he had no objections.” 

Again Morris recalled his pressing engagements in 
Joisey. That train—say, it must have been leaving 
by this time! He could hear it whistle in his imagi¬ 
nation. Say, wouldn’t anybody have a heart? What’s 
a boy’s Saturday afternoon for , anyhow? 

“Borrow the office?” he shouted. “But what about 



ROBERT COOLEY, MAN OF AFFAIRS 99 


me? I’ve got to lock the place up!” He flourished 
the key with a gesture that was frantic in its despair¬ 
ing haste; Mr. Cooley was an all right chap, Morris 
had always been his devotedly, but what about that 
movie he was going to—and that bobbed-haired girl 
that was waiting for him to take her—oh, say- 

“You don’t have to lock up here for a couple of 
hours,” Bob replied significantly. 

“I don’t, huh?” Morris waved his lanky arms in 
wild gesticulation and rattled the door knob in token 
that it was time for his guest to depart. 

“No,” Bob replied deliberately. “You’re working for 
me this afternoon. How about that?” He took a 
bill from his pocket. “Here you are—wages in ad¬ 
vance. Any objection to that?” And the bill fluttered 
before the glittering eyes of Morris. 

“Five berries!” exclaimed that youth, fairly leaping 
upon it. “And me flat broke! Oh, say, that’s differ¬ 
ent !” As he conveyed the greenback to his pocket he 
made a rapid mental outline of the way he would 
present his case to the girl with the bobbed hair— 
detained by Mr. Moseley—sent on a dozen extra 
errands—kept until he missed the last train—terribly 
sorry, but let her wait till the next Saturday after¬ 
noon —then would he show her a good time, well I guess 
yes, if he could only hold onto those five berries for a 
week! 

Immediately his respect for Bob and his interest 
in him had risen by a large percentage. “What busi¬ 
ness are you in now?” he inquired deferentially. A 
man who could hand out a fiver with a mere casual 



100 


POLLY PREFERRED 


dip into his pocket, just to keep an office boy a couple 
of hours on duty, was the kind of a feller to cultivate. 
You bet he had always liked that Mr. Cooley anyhow! 

Bob’s reply thrilled him: 

“Moving pictures.” 

“O—O—Oh!” The office boy’s eyes almost popped 
from his head, his jaw dropped in awe, his entire body, 
even the dangling legs and arms, seemed to utter his 
overwhelming surprise. Moving pictures! The realm 
of Morris’s fondest dreams! That magic world in 
which heroes heroed, in which beauties beauted, in 
which every dream that an office boy’s wildest imagi¬ 
nation could conjure up came true! Moving pictures! 
Could it really be that he, Morris of Joisey, was per¬ 
mitted to touch the hem of an adored garment, to 
speak figuratively? Did he actually see here before 
him, with his own popping eyes, a man who belonged 
to that realm of marvel, who hailed from that land 
where beauteous and lavishly gowned ladies clasped 
their hands and swept across the screen and fell into 
a lover’s arms? Where hold heroes slew villains hit- 
or-miss in all directions and came off triumphant every 
time? For the movies that most appealed to Morris 
were those of hothouse passion and ever-conquering 
courage. 

“Oh, Oh!” he murmured again, too much overcome 
to be articulate at first. He approached Bob slowly, 
gazing rapt upon him; he was the Wonder Man, and 
all a boy could do was to stare, and stare hard. 

Bob smiled at his obvious awe. “Yes, I am, Morris,” 
he assured him. 


ROBERT COOLEY, MAN OF AFFAIRS 101 


“The movies ?” demanded the other, recovering 
his speech at last, and not quite able to believe. “On 
the level ?” 

Bob was falling to work now, unwrapping the large 
parcel that he had brought. No time to waste in talk 
—Saturday afternoon was a brief space in which to be 
owner of a fine office on the twenty-first floor! One 
must take advantage of every fleeting moment. 

“Yes, on the level,” he replied while he worked. 
“Straight as anything you ever heard. It’s a great 
business, my son, believe me.” 

Suddenly Morris clasped his hands in a gesture of 
rapture and pleading. “Aw, take me wid you!” he 
implored. “Say, I know more about Hollywood than 
the feller that built it!” At last he had come in touch 
with the world of his desire; somehow, someway, he 
must sneak in at the gate while it stood open. 

Bob paused a moment to smile at his rapture and 
supplication, an indulgent smile. “That’s right,” he 
said, recollecting. “You’re a fan, aren’t you? I re¬ 
member you always took your time off to see a new 
film.” 

“I’m more than a fan,” declared Morris earnestly. 
“I’m makin’ a study of pictures. Ask me the title 
of any star’s last picture—anyone at all-” 

Bob gave the boy a friendly slap on the shoulder. 
The kid was all right! He must have an eye out for 
him. “Well, Morris,” he said, “if things break for me 
this afternoon I’ll keep you in mind.” Still busying 
himself about the room, he now took up a board which 
he had extracted from one of the parcels, and held 



102 


POLLY PREFERRED 


it up to Morris’s view. Upon it the boy read in neat 
lettering: 


ROBERT COOLEY 
MOTION PICTURES 


More mysteries! “What are you goin’ to do with 
that?” demanded the spell-bound office boy. 

“I’ll show you.” Bob flung open the corridor door, 
upon which the sign Moseley and Webb had long held 
undisputed sway, and over these names he hung his 
sign, concealing them entirely. 

“I hope it fits,” he muttered, joggling it into place 
in the small panel where the other names had appeared. 
It did—precisely. In fact, the new sign looked en¬ 
tirely at home in its place. “Ought to,” Bob continued 
to think out loud. “I came up last night and measured 
the space.” 

The nerve of him! Morris was almost as much 
over-awed by these cool proceedings as by the contact 
with film-land. 

“Say, the Boss wouldn’t laugh at that very much!” 
he exclaimed. 

Bob’s coolness of audacity did not waver at the 
thought of Mr. Webb’s displeasure. “It’s not here to 
make him laugh,” he observed serenely. “Anyhow, H. 
W. is a pretty good sport, even if he did let me out. 
I’ll take the responsibility.” 

If Morris had had any scruples as to how far he 



ROBERT COOLEY, MAN OF AFFAIRS 103 


should permit things to go around the office, they 
were wiped out by this time. He surrendered com¬ 
pletely. “Well,” he sighed, “if there’s a chanct of you 
puttin’ me in filmland you kin do moyders around here 
so long’s you wipe up the blood.” And he gazed rap¬ 
turously at the imagined world of his dreams. 

Bob had finished the last screw that held the new 
sign in place. He stood back now, surveying his work 
with satisfaction. 

“There, now, how does that look?” 

Morris joined him in admiration of the sign. “My!” 
he cried. “You only left here three days ago—you’re 
workin’ fast!” 

“I have to,” Bob replied. 

“Who’s cornin’?” 

“My backers—I hope.” 

At that Morris suddenly grasped the full situation 
in a flash of sympathy. “Say!” he cried. “I’m in on 
this! I can help you fix the place up!” With a wild 
leap, somewhat similar to that which a longlegged colt 
gives in a pasture, he was across the room, at his desk: 
from its depths he dragged forth a huge pile of maga¬ 
zines, so crammed in that they fell in a heap on the 
floor. They were gorgeously covered magazines, a 
lovely lady displayed on every cover. 

“Pipe my liberry!” he cried proudly as he gathered 
up an armful. 

“What on earth are they?” Bob asked in surprise. 

“Picture magazines! Every one of ’em!” Morris 
thrust some of them into Bob’s hands. “Scatter ’em 
round,” he gave orders. “And I better make sure 


104 


POLLY PREFERRED 


there ain’t any women’s underwear lying around—and 
we better get rid of these samples-” 

Morris was master of the situation now. Under 
his instructions, Bob was scattering the motion picture 
magazines carelessly about the room, giving a strong 
touch of film atmosphere, while Morris fell to to get 
rid of the last vestiges that suggested the atmosphere 
of ladies’ silk underwear. He snatched a roll of silk 
from a table and whisked it out of sight; removed from 
the wall a huge advertisement of a well-known make 
of silk; unhooked from their places of display against 
the wall two other bolts of the finest jersey silk. Bob 
observed his preparations with amusement and sur¬ 
prised admiration. Was this person of such quick 
thinking and execution none other than Morris, the 
long-necked, gaping office boy whose chief distinction 
had been his abundance of lengthy arms and legs that 
always got in his own way? 

“Oh, great!” he cried. “Say, Morris,” he appealed, 
“what will we do with Moseley and Webb?” And his 
puzzled gaze rested upon the two proprietors’ por¬ 
traits that hung side by side upon the wall. 

“Oh, they’re all right,” the boy assured him. “Tell 
’em Moseley’s a big director and Webb looks like Theo¬ 
dore Roberts, anyhow.” 

“Good boy! That’s the idea !” Bob brightened. 

Morris was superb. “Oh, I tell you, you need me!” 
he cried with authority, and swept from the room with 
all the suspicious articles which he had gathered in 
his arms. 

Bob returned to the table where he had deposited 



ROBERT COOLEY, MAN OF AFFAIRS 105 


his boxes and bundles, lifted the long, flat parcel, and 
cut the string. As he was opening it, the knob of 
the corridor door gave a tremulous rattle. He paused, 
looked up; the door timidly opened a crack and a face 
appeared. Then, slowly and hesitatingly, Polly, still 
in her gorgeous raiment, entered. 

“Is this really your office?” she asked in a small, 
frightened voice. 

He came forward to greet her, and, with a flourish, 
pointed to the sign on the door which still stood ajar. 

“Can’t you read?” he demanded. 

She closed the door behind her and held out a hand 
to Bob. 

“It seemed so grand I thought there must be some 
mistake,” she said. 

He looked at her sharply as he took her hand. 
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. 

“Nothing. Is there?” 

“Why, your hand is like ice and you’re trembling all 
over.” He looked her up and down with sharp anxiety. 

“Oh, I’m all right,” Polly strove to reassure him, 
although there was a quaver in the voice that said it. 
“I’m not going to weaken.” 

“Of course you’re not! But you’re frightened, 
aren’t you?” 

And, giving a pathetic gulp to choke back something 
dangerously near a tear, Polly confessed: 

“I’m just—scared—to death!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


GREAT PREPARATIONS 

Events had whirled so fast as to sweep Polly almost 
off her feet. Only three days before, that first meet¬ 
ing with Bob in the Automat; his wild scheme pro¬ 
pounded ; that hurried confab, in which arrangements 
had been made for the trap-setting in Fashion Row at 
the great hotel. Then the afternoon’s work of en¬ 
snaring victims—every nerve tense, to carry it off 
triumphantly; and the next day’s hurried preparations 
for this meeting of Saturday afternoon in the office, 
a meeting which would demand her utmost skill and 
poise as an actress, and a most difficult role at that. 
Bob had been so hurried that he had given her the 
briefest instructions as to finding him here; the details 
of his plan she did not yet fully know. Perhaps he 
hardly knew them himself! He must trust to the de¬ 
velopment of the situation, to carrying off the thing 
largely by inspiration, as he went along. 

He had met her at a photographer’s the day before, 
by appointment, and some moving pictures had been 
hurriedly taken of her. These were the “tests” of which 
he had boasted to the gentlemen in Fashion Row. How 
they had come out she had had no chance to learn; in 
fact, she felt that she was in the clutches of a whirl¬ 
wind and she was trembling while being swept away. 

106 


GREAT PREPARATIONS 


107 


She stood looking at him now like a frightened child 
as she made her confession. Scared to death! He 
couldn’t believe it! The cool poise of Miss Pierpont 
in Fashion Row had deceived him quite as much as it 
had the others. 

“That’s funny,” he said. “I never thought of your 
getting scared. There’s nothing to be frightened 
about, you know.” 

But her misgivings had possession for the time. 
“How can you say that ?” she cried pitifully. “Calling 
this your office—trying to bunco these men out of a 
fortune—pretending I’m a great find when I’ve never 
been out of the chorus. I’m expecting to see a police¬ 
man come in that door any minute!” 

“That’s all silly nonsense,” Bob protested. “We 
aren’t going to cheat anybody.” 

“We are if I don’t turn out to be any good.” 

“But you will be good. You’ll be great!” 

“How do you know?” 

“By looking at you,” he replied. 

And to this Polly said, “Oh!” And a smile flickered 
up into her eyes and across her lips, and she didn’t 
tremble quite as much. 

“And by talking to you,” Bob went on reassuringly. 
“Why, you’ve got a lot of confidence in yourself— 
haven’t you?” 

She shook her head in denial. “No, I haven’t one 
bit!” she declared, and by this time Bob looked at her 
with genuine anxiety. He had thought to blow away 
her doubts with one puff of his assurance—whiff— 
so—! But if the girl was really going to lose her 


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nerve, what the dickens were they to do? He strode 
across the room, pondering, his brow knit with worry. 

Polly saw it, and rallied. “Oh, but I won’t let them 
know that!” she promised him. “I’ll go through with 
it—until we’re caught.” 

He turned, studying her. 

“I’m going to try with all my might,” she went on 
earnestly. “Honestly, I am.” 

He began to feel better. Evidently, she had not 
lost her sporting quality. “That’s the way to talk!” 
he cried. “And it’s going to work. It’s got to. Look 
here!” And from the long flat box he lifted a gown 
of the newest shade of royal blue, falling richly in 
heavy folds of silk. “What do you think of your new 
dress?” 

“You didn’t borrow another one?” cried Polly 
aghast at the audacity. Evidently there was no stop¬ 
ping this young man! 

“Sure,” he responded coolly. “They’ve all seen you 
in that thing. We mustn’t neglect the window dressing, 
you know.” 

He had struck the right chord. Poor Polly, the 
victim of a stepmother’s “making over,” could not re¬ 
sist the lure of Fifth Avenue’s modistes. The starved 
youth and longing for beauty flamed up in her as she 
touched the exquisite folds of shimmering blue. 

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, caressing it. “I’m 
surprised they’d lend it to you.” 

“I’ve got quite a pull with these dress people,” he 
explained. “I used to sell them silks.” One of Bob’s 
maxims was, “Every acquaintance is fish to the net of 


GREAT PREPARATIONS 


109 


the business man,” and he was making good use of all 
his fish. 

“What’s that?” Polly cried suddenly, catching sight 
of a queer-looking thing on the table. 

Rob lifted it from the table to the floor. “It’s the 
projection machine I borrowed,” he said. “And it’s 
all loaded with—what do you think?” 

She was all excitement by now, and glowing. 

“With my tests?” she breathed in suspense. 

“That’s what!” he cried proudly. 

“Oh, let me see!” 

“No time now,” he told her sternly. 

“But I must—I—Oh-” 

“No.” He set his lips, while smiling at her eager¬ 
ness. “Our men may be here any minute now.” 

Dear me, how could she stand it? “How did they 
come out?” she demanded, almost dancing with excite¬ 
ment. 

“Great!” he told her. 

“Really and truly?” 

“Really and truly.” 

“When did you see them?” 

“I haven’t seen them,” he admitted with a smile. 

“Oh!” cried the disappointed Polly. 

“It was all I could do to get these things here,” he 
defended himself. “Leap for life. Pretty near missed 
out as it was. I grabbed the projection machine and 
made for this place. But I didn’t need to see them. I 
know they’re great.” 

“How do you know any such thing?” inquired Polly 
with withering satire. 



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He was not to be withered. “I know, because you’re 
great, and so they’ve got to be,” he told her firmly. 
“Besides, the camera man who took them for us said 
they were ‘all right.’ And I gave him ten dollars.” 

“Before?” inquired Polly astutely. “Or after?” 

“Before or after what?” 

“—he said they were all right?” 

“I gave it to him before, certainly.” Bob let himself 
into that trap without a suspicion! 

Polly turned away with disgust. “Then of course 
he’d say it,” she cried. “Oh, dear, if I could only see 
them!” 

Bob cut short the discussion, for business pressed. 
“You hurry and get into that dress,” he ordered her. 
“They’re due here any minute.” 

Polly looked vaguely around. “Where can I put it 
on?” 

“In the private office—in there-” He jerked a 

thumb toward the inner door. 

She picked up the big flat box containing the beauti¬ 
ful blue silk, and the square box suggestive of a hat. 
“Oh!” she remarked as if an idea had just occurred to 
her. “Oh!” she said again. She hesitated. She fum¬ 
bled with the boxes. Then she determinedly set them 
down. 

“There are two of the middle hooks of this gown 
that I can’t reach to unfasten,” she said very honestly. 
“Would—would you mind?” 

“Why—why—oh, certainly,” he replied. Somehow 
it flustered him, his fingers turned to thumbs at the 
very thought. She backed up to let him assist her; he 



GREAT PREPARATIONS 


111 


bent to reach those baffling hooks; he fumbled, he 
turned red, but eventually he found them. They 
were stubborn; they wouldn’t give way. 

“What a wonderful line this is!” he murmured re¬ 
flectively over the task. 

“Thank you,” replied Polly, supposing that he al¬ 
luded to her figure. 

“Oh, I mean selling girls. Every man you meet may 
not be a buyer, but they’re all interested in your goods.” 
He was on his knees by this time, tussling with the ob¬ 
stinate hooks. It was thus that the ubiquitous Morris, 
reappearing suddenly, discovered him. 

Morris halted, and a silent “Why!” formed itself 
upon his lips as he stared with popping eyes. Then his 
indignation and astonishment vented themselves. 

“I thought you said you was usin’ de office fer busi¬ 
ness !” he shouted. 

Bob rose from his kneeling posture with a last wrench 
that undid the hooks, and faced the youth coolly. 

“I am,” he replied. “Morris, this is our star, Miss 
Pierpont.” 

Morris’s bulging eyes raked Miss Pierpont from top 
to toe. “Aw,” he said at length. “She ain’t never 
been in pictures before.” 

“How do you know?” Bob inquired. 

“ ’Cause if she had I’d a seen her,” came prompt 
and decisive from the youthful connoisseur. 

Bob smiled at the all-knowingness of it. “Morris, 
take those things in the private office,” he directed, 
pointing to the boxes, and with an obedient “Yes, 
sir,” the all-knowing picked them up. 


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But he couldn’t as yet tear himself away from the 
presence of the star-to-be. 

Bob turned to Polly. “He seems to know a lot 
about pictures,” he explained. “He’s just been telling 
me that he’s made a study of them.” 

“Really?” Polly smiled upon the boy and turned 
to him with an air of interested attention that won 
his heart upon the instant. Say, this was some god¬ 
dess you betcher life all-right-all-right! 

“Oh, yes, ma’am!” he cried eagerly. “Anything you 
want to know about the up-an’-down stage, just call 
on me!” It was a proud moment when he could dis¬ 
play his knowledge to a queen like this! 

Bob indulgently deferred to him, with an amused 
smile. “What do you think about Miss Pierpont, 
Morris, anyway? Will she screen well? You ought 
to know the type of face that makes the best screen 
pictures. Come on, let’s have the judgment of a 
connoisseur!” 

And Morris, turning back at the door of the private 
office, whither he was carrying the boxes, gave Polly 
a long and thorough scrutiny. 

“Well,” he said at last after profound study, “If 
she screens the way she looks —she ought to! That’s 
all I gotta say!” And he vanished while Bob and 
Polly exchanged amused glances. 

“And now—for my next gorgeous raiment,” she 
cried, recovering her gayety, and she followed the 
boxes toward the private office. 

“If you want some more help with the hooks,” Bob 
instructed her, “just sing out.” As a lady’s valet 


GREAT PREPARATIONS 


113 


he felt himself already accomplished; his mastery over 
the preceeding hooks gave him confidence. 

“Thank you,” Polly laughed with a bright nod, and, 
pausing at the private door— 

“I know this is a mad scheme,” she said thought¬ 
fully. “Every ounce of my gray matter tells me so. 
But somehow it doesn’t feel mad—when you’re around. 
I don’t know how it is, but you make nonsense turn 
to sense. I’ve got—such—such wonderful faith in 
you!” 

Watching the door close behind her, Bob stood 

thoughtful, too, for a moment. Paith in him-that 

was what his mother and his kid sister had—faith in 
him. And now Polly. . . . Somehow he’d got to 

make good when all these helpless people were pinning 
their trust to him. It was the thing that held a 
fellow’s hands up, this faith of weaker persons—of 
women. Yes, he’d got to make good. . . 

Morris, returning, found him very still and very 
thoughtful. He closed the door softly and crossed to 
where Bob stood, plunged in his meditations. 

“Say,” said Morris, “you’re stuck on her, ain’t 
you?” 

Bob jumped. “What?” he demanded. 

“Oh, maybe you don’t know it, but you are,” con¬ 
tinued the ubiquitous Morris. “I could tell it—the 
way you looked at her.” He wagged his head with 
the wag of a sage. “What I don’t know about men, 
women, and life in general isn’t worth knowing!” the 
wag seemed to say. 

“No you couldn’t,” replied Bob tartly. “I’m not 



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thinking about girls,” he went on with some show of 
annoyance. Really, this office boy was making him¬ 
self more useful than was necessary! “I’m thinking 
about getting ahead and making some money. If I 
ever do fall in love,” he went on reflectively, more to 
himself than to Morris, “it won’t be anyone that I’m 
in business with. I’ve got too much sense for that.” 

He dropped the subject and returned briskly to the 
matter of the moment. “Here,” he said, tearing away 
the wrapping paper from the parcels and handing 
it to Morris. “We’ve got to finish clearing up here 
in a hurry. Enough time wasted already.” He bustled 
now, to make up for lost time; and Morris was hasten¬ 
ing toward the waste-basket with the paper when the 
telephone once more interrupted his proceedings. 

“Wow!” ejaculated the angry Morris, and a much 
stronger word than “Wow!” followed that expletive. 
“I bet that’s that darn woman again!” 

He flounced peevishly to the extension. 

“This’ll be the third time!” he cried in disgust. 
“Hello!” And as the response greeted his Hello!”, 
he turned to Bob. “It’s her, all right,” he groaned. 
“Now I’m in for it.” 

“Is this Moseley and Webb?” came the inquiry. 

“Yes,” groaned Morris into the receiver. “No, 
ma’am, they’re all gone!” 

And, while Morris endeavored to shorten the con¬ 
versation of the voluble lady at the other end of the 
telephone, the outer door opened, and Bob turned 
toward it. As he did so, every nerve in his body 
seemed to tighten, to draw up to a hard knot. Was 


GREAT PREPARATIONS 


115 


he ready? Could he carry the thing off? Now was 
his chance—make or break. It was up to him. Never 
in his life had he attempted any scheme of such au¬ 
dacity, such risk—one in which every step must be 
taken with the utmost presence of mind, the utmost 
coolness, the utmost daring. Yes—somehow he had 
got to put it through. 

For, at that opening of the door, he knew that 
his campaign had really started. His victims had 
begun to arrive. The door now opened wide to admit 
the corpulent form of the first prospective buyer—the 
great advertising man—Harold Nathan. 


CHAPTER IX 


SELLING SHARES IN MISS PIERPONT 

Bob had an instant of gathering himself together 
for the test; then he stepped forward to greet the 
first visitor, entirely master of himself. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Nathan,” he said cordially, 
his hand out—and yet his tone was not too cordial, 
his hand was not too eagerly out. His manner was 
perfect, indeed; he wore the air of the successful 
man of affairs, sure of himself, of his standing and 
prestige, asking no favors, friendly but not solicitous. 

Nathan came in with a swift, appraising glance 
around. “So this is where you sway the fortunes of 
filmland?” he said good-humoredly, puffing his way 
into the room. He liked the look of the office; hand¬ 
some, expensive throughout, but not one wit preten¬ 
tious. 

“Yes,” Bob replied easily, tie was fully the owner 
of the office by this time. He was just about showing 
Nathan to a seat when the raucous voice of the 
office boy rasped out in his telephone conversation: 

“One-seventy-five wholesale for the shirts—two-and- 
a-quarter for the combinations,” he shouted to the 
other end of the wire. 

Nathan’s eyes enlarged, his eyebrows rose in query. 
He was just about to place a large cigar between his 
116 


SELLING SHARES IN MISS PIERPONT 117 


lips, but he paused. This was a queer proposition in 
a moving-picture office! 

Bob cast him a wink. “My office boy sometimes has 
outside interests,” he explained aside. 

Nathan nodded, satisfied. “Oh, I see.” The cigar 
continued its journey to his lips, and he seated him¬ 
self in wheezy comfort in the largest chair. 

But Morris persisted innocently, “They’ve gone, I 
tell you! Ain’t you got enough shirts to last you 
till Monday?” And again Nathan’s eyebrows began 
to rise. 

Bob must take matters into his hands and put a 
stop to this, or his guest’s suspicions would increase. 
“Morris,” he said sharply, “you must not transact 
your business in this office—at least, while I’m in 
here.” 

Morris turned his long goose-neck in Bob’s direc¬ 
tion. “Yes, sir,” he replied obediently; and, into the 
telephone: “I can’t say nothin’ more, good-bye!” he 
cried, and hung up the receiver to Bob’s intense relief. 
Qne peril averted, at least! 

A knock was now heard at the corridor door. 

“See who’s at the door, Morris,” Bob said, and, as 
the boy crossed to it with a prompt “Yes, sir,” he 
added sternly: 

“And if it’s about your underwear matter-” 

“I’ll flag ’em!” broke in Morris, eager to please. 

He cautiously opened a crack in the door and peered 
out; nobody with silk underwear intentions should be 
permitted to pass that long-necked dragon on guard! 
But these were strangers to Morris; and Bob, seeing 



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two familiar faces beyond the guardian dragon, called 
out in welcome: 

“Come right in, gentlemen. Mr. Owen Kennedy,” 
he made introduction—“Mr. Harold Nathan. Of 
course,” he added to Nathan, “you know Mr. Pierre 
Jones.” And, as the two friends entered briskly, the 
introductions were effected with abundant cordiality 
all around. 

“Most happy to meet you,” Nathan responded. 

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Bob said with the air of a 
host, and Morris, having performed his duty for the 
time, returned to his desk in the corner. 

“Are we ahead of time?” inquired Jones, taking 
unto himself a chair with the air of easy elegance 
that informed all his doings. “Or are the others 
late?” 

For the instant Bob was at sea. “The others?” he 
murmured, puzzled. 

Jones glanced at him in surprise. “Why, yes,” he 
said. “Your syndicate.” 

“Oh, the syndicate!” Bob had found his place 
now, but this wasn’t going to be easy to handle. “The 
syndicate—oh, they won’t be here.” 

The other three men showed annoyance. “They 
won’t be here?” demanded Nathan bruskly, biting his 
cigar viciously. What had the fellow brought him 
here for, anyway, if the meeting wasn’t on after 
all? 

“No,” continued Bob, growing cooler with every 
word he uttered. “In fact, not one of them knows of 
this meeting.” 


SELLING SHARES IN MISS PIERPONT 119 


“Really?” inquired Jones, stirring uneasily, and with 
a look of misgiving. 

“No,” stated Bob steadily. “My idea now is that 
we discuss taking over the whole proposition ourselves.” 
This was certainly surprising; the three gentlemen 
had been invited to this office at this hour for the 
purpose, they assumed, of meeting the syndicate of the 
new motion-picture concern, and here this chap was 
turning everything topsy-turvy at a whim of his own. 

“But how could we take it over?” demanded Ken¬ 
nedy, quite as uneasy as his friend. 

“We couldn’t, unless—that is, Miss Pierpont must 
live up to her agreement if her backers insist,” Bob 
explained. He faced the three, and set forth his 
plan now with a clearness and conviction that rang 
true and carried conviction to the others. “But if 
we were to decide definitely, today, that we would take 
it over—I could go to them, and tell them that Miss 
Pierpont was not in sympathy with their methods and 
I think I might get them to cancel her contract.” 

As he watched his listeners closely he saw already 
that the shadow of doubt was passing from their 
faces. They were listening intently, and showed signs 
of agreeing with him. 

“But of course,” he went on soberly, “it isn’t so 
easy raising fifty thousand dollars. And I shouldn’t 
feel justified in trying to get them out unless I was 
reasonably sure that you were coming in.” He met 
their eyes frankly as he said this; there was something 
open and honest about the chap, they all thought, 
that you had to meet fairly. 


120 


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Kennedy broke the thoughtful silence that followed 
Bob’s words. “Yes, I see exactly what you mean,” 
he said. 

“Yes, of course,” Bob responded. Who could help 
but see this simple matter. 

“But aren’t you a little sanguine?” continued Ken¬ 
nedy, who knew the world of finance and measured 
costs keenly, “when you talk of making a picture for 
fifty thousand dollars?” 

Bob spoke slowly, as if pondering his reply. 
“No—o. I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve tried to 
make a safe estimate.” 

Nathan didn’t intend to go off on any blind chase. 
He wanted to see his way, dollar by dollar. “Will 
you quote us the cost of some feature pictures, Mr. 
Cooley?” he demanded. 

Bob’s preparations had perforce been so hasty that 
he wasn’t quite prepared for this. “Well—ah—let me 
see-” he began, floundering. 

But Morris rushed in, saving the day. Mr. Cooley 
might be in the motion-picture business but he didn’t 
know as much about it as he did, the office boy, who 
had made an intensive study of the movies in every 
off-hour for several years. Who was authority on 
the films if he was not? 

“I remember some, Mr. Cooley!” he cried, leaping 
into the conversation with all his lanky arms and legs. 
‘‘That big one, ‘Husbands and Lovers,’ cost under 
forty and it grossed over a million. ‘Sunbonnet Sue,’ 
the first picture Mark Valentine made, cost forty-two; 
‘Ropes of Sand,’ forty-seven; wait—I’ve got lots more 



SELLING SHARES IN MISS PIERPONT 121 


here—” He was dashing back toward his desk, but 
Bob interrupted him. 

“Thank you, Morris,” he said. “I guess that’s 
enough for the gentlemen.” And the others, who had 
listened intently, gave signs of satisfaction. 

Kennedy went on with the discussion. He had a 
question to broach. 

“In case this venture seems attractive, Mr. Cooley, 
would you object to taking in one more man?” 

Bob’s feelers were out, but the only course open to 
him was one of friendly readiness. And, of course, 
the “one more man” might be the best of all. 

“Well, no,” he replied with slight hesitation. “Not 
if he’s the right sort.” 

“Oh, he is,” Kennedy assured him. “He has already 
been in one or two theatrical investments, and he knows 
the ropes. In fact, I haven’t a friend that I should 
consider as well primed to come in on such a proposi¬ 
tion as he is.” 

“Then he’s just the kind we’re looking for,” Bob 
agreed heartily, litPe guessing what lay ahead. 

Kennedy continued. “To tell the truth, I never go 
into any venture without getting him to pass on it 
first. He’s got the kind of nose that sniffs out a 
good thing—or a bad.” 

Jones turned toward his friend. “You mean Ruther¬ 
ford?” he inquired. 

“Yes,” Kennedy replied. 

Nathan became alert at the name. “Is that Joseph 
Rutherford, you’re talking about?” 

“Yes,” Kennedy said, “that’s the man.” 


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Nathan nodded with satisfaction. “Yes. Good. 
If I do go into this scheme I should feel much easier 
to have him with us. I know practically nothing about 
the picture game.” Evidently the name of Rutherford 
had put him much more at ease. 

“Nor I,” responded Jones, “not on the business side, 
that is. As to the other—the artistic side—I know 
that nearly all of them are simply rotten!” 

Bob greeted their confessions of ignorance with 
warmth. “That’s exactly why I prefer you gentlemen 
to the others,” he told them. “The others have the 
old stereotyped ideas—dyed-in-the-wool—nothing must 
ever be changed—no innovations—a formula for every 
picture. I want to see something new—something that 
will break away from the old rules and make a killing 
along its own lines. You’re the ones to infuse a new 
spirit into the movies. I want Mr. Jones for his 
knowledge of painting—Mr. Nathan for his knowledge 
of advertising—and Mr. Kennedy for his knowledge of 
finance. Don’t you see, gentlemen, it’s ideal!” 

He wound up with a burst of enthusiasm in his voice; 
but the characteristic expression of skepticism flitted 
over Kennedy’s face. It was never long in hiding. 

“Yes,” he said, “but I prefer to wait for Mr. Ruther¬ 
ford.” 

“Oh, is he coming here?” exclaimed Bob. He hadn’t 
grasped this; he had visioned Mr. Joseph Rutherford 
as far distant in the landscape of his schemes, perhaps 
never drawing near enough to cause any inconvenience 
—provided he were the inconvenient kind. However, 
he might be just the man to enter into the proposition 


SELLING SHARES IN MISS PIERPONT 123 


with zest, and help carry it out to a triumphant finish. 
Nothing like keeping an open mind. 

“He said he’d come this afternoon,” Kennedy re¬ 
sponded. 

“That’s splendid!” said Jones, and Bob was con¬ 
scious of a certain relief spreading over all his guests, 
as if they felt the safer in passing their problem up 
to this Rutherford, whoever he was. 

“Do you think he’ll come in on the thing?” Nathan 
asked Kennedy. 

“Well, he didn’t say he wouldn’t. However, I only 
asked him to give me his advice.” 

“Did he give you any?” pressed Nathan the wary. 

“He suggested calling in an expert—said he knows 
a screen director who’s made a lot of good pictures.” 

“Then he’s the man we want,” agreed Nathan. 

“What’s his name?” inquired Bob. 

“Crawford Boswell.” 

“Oh! Boswell!” said Bob, for the name was well 
known in film circles, and it spoke with authority. 

“Yes,” Nathan resumed, much pleased with the pros¬ 
pect of expert advice, “it would be an excellent idea 
to put up the proposition to a man like that. Don’t 
you think so, Mr. Cooley?” 

“I do—most certainly,” Bob agreed with cordiality. 
He may have gulped secretly as he said it; this would 
be a test indeed, to play his game in the presence of a 
professional director of wide experience and shrewd 
judgment; but after all, if Polly was what he believed 
her to be, this might prove to be the great opportunity 
to prove her gift. 


124 


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Kennedy folded his arms, and the cynicism of his 
expression came into the foreground. 

“Boswell said the whole idea was crazy,” he ob¬ 
served. 

“Crazy?” demanded Bob indignantly. 

“Yes,” went on Kennedy the doubter. “But he 
promised he’d come up, all the same—as a favor to 
Rutherford. They’re good friends. But he wanted 
him to understand that it was a waste of time his 
coming.” 

“Then he’s just the man we want!” Bob declared. 
He was playing up boldly now. “If we can convince 
him , it ought to show that we’ve got something.” And 
his conviction carried. 

“That’s the way to talk,” Jones agreed briskly. He 
didn’t know about these matters of “quoted cost,” and 
“grossing over a million”; but he did know about the 
artistic side of the thing, and he was anxious to hear 
a director of high-class pictures pass his opinion. 
When it came to judging beauty and grace, Jones was 
altogether at ease. 

Bob went to a drawer and took out some large 
sheets of paper which he had stowed away there 
while making preparations for the meeting. 

“Now, I’ve drawn up a short prospectus,” he ex¬ 
plained. “And I’ll pass these copies of it round to 
all of you and ask you to look it over.” He moved 
through the group, giving each one a carbon typed 
sheet, upon which his prospectus had been set forth— 
another of his rushed preparations. But in spite of 
the fact that the last three days had been a series 


SELLING SHARES IN MISS PIERPONT 125 


of leaps from one thing to another—borrowing Paris 
costumes, coaching Polly in her role, roping in victims 
at the hotel, making ready to move into an office for 
two hours, having tests made of his star, fitting a sign 
to the door, engaging an office boy, and concocting a 
consistent tale to tell his victims—in spite of all these 
wild hurly-burly activities, young Mr. Cooley now 
moved among his prospective “company” with the self- 
possessed air of a man who has long been carrying on 
business of vast importance; one who feels himself 
competent to lead and to handle any situation in his 
leadership. 

While the papers were being passed, however, Bob’s 
composure once more hovered on the edge of becoming 
discomposure. Once more the telephone bell rang, 
and Morris, hastening to it, began again his shouted 
conversation. 

“Hello!” he shrieked. “Is that you again? I told 
you the price—” 

Bob turned and made a desperate signal to him. 
And by this time Morris was “on,” as he told himself. 
Quickly he changed the topic of his conversation, and 
replied to an imaginary reporter: 

“Oh, yes, sir. The new film company? No, sir, it 
ain’t organized yet. We may have something for the 
press tomorrow.” So far Morris was superb; but, 
slipping for the instant, he wound up with: 

“Yes, ma’am. That’s all.” 

Portunately, however, the assembled gentlemen were 
too much absorbed in their typed sheets of paper to 
give close attention to Morris’s remarkable telephone 


126 


POLLY PREFERRED 


conversation, and what words they caught carried out 
the impression of an active film project making its 
headquarters here in Room 2104 Skyrocket Building. 
But their brows now began to knit themselves over the 
documents they were studying. 

Nathan was the first to express himself audibty. 
“This is a damn queer idea to say the least,” he ex¬ 
ploded. 

Bob assumed a soothing tone. “What’s that, Mr. 
Nathan?” He held a copy of the paper himself as he 
stood facing the group, and he was apparently at a 
loss to know what “damn queer idea” the gentleman 
might refer to. 

Nathan beat a tattoo on his paper with petulant 
finger-tips. He was frowning formidably. 

“Why, we’re not taking shares in a picture enter¬ 
prise at all—it’s in Miss Pierpont herself!” the adver¬ 
tising man exclaimed. 

At this Kennedy and Jones turned back to their 
own papers, studying them with pursed lips. 

But Bob showed no lack of ease. He accepted the 
statement as a matter of course. To be sure they were 
taking shares in the young lady—apparently nothing 
could have been less remarkable! One might have 
fancied, from his manner, that young ladies were par¬ 
celled out and sold in shares every day in the week, 
quite as easily as a silver mine or an oil well. 

“That’s it, exactly,” he affirmed. “We are prac¬ 
tically buying her.” 

“Buying her?” cried Kennedy. He might be in 
the bond business—he might be familiar with The 


SELLING SHARES IN MISS PIERPONT 127 


Street—he might have handled investments ever since 
he entered manhood and the world of business—but he 
had never yet heard of buying a young lady in sec¬ 
tions like a new real estate development. 

“Yes,” Bob affirmed again, still with the same mat¬ 
ter-of-courseness and self-possession. “Incorporating 
her, that’s it—taking stock in her.” 

And Jones, at this juncture, put in the very per¬ 
tinent query: 

“Why?” 

Bob launched into a full explanation at this. “Be¬ 
cause,” he said, “Miss Pierpont is to be our only asset. 
She must not only work for us, but live in the way 
that we consider best for the interests of the com¬ 
pany. For instance—she might want to go up in an 
aeroplane—or she might be seen around with people 
who would injure her picture reputation—or she might 
fall in love—she might even want to get married.” 

He paused, satisfied that he had set forth his plan 
clearly and convincingly. It was clear and convincing 
to him . As he had blocked out the thing, it would 
be quite impossible to give this new merchandise of his 
any personal liberties, or she might cease to become 
saleable merchandise. You didn’t let silk underwear 
have any personal liberties—it lay quietly in its box 
until it was wanted, and then you placed it wherever 
you chose. That was his conception of making Polly 
his “goods,” of selling shares in her. He had dressed 
his show window, he had displayed his goods to the 
best advantage, he had drawn in his prospective pur¬ 
chasers, and now the goods was not to be allowed to 


128 


POLLY PREFERRED 


spoil any of his arrangements. It looked perfectly 
simple to him. But the others were not gifted with 
his wild flights of fancy. Moreover, they may have 
known more about women in general than did young 
Mr. Cooley—and less about Polly, in particular, and 
the inside of the situation. 

“But,” demurred Kennedy, “could we ever get her to 
sign a contract like that?” 

Bob halted before replying. The moment had come, 
he felt, to play his trump card. He had handled these 
men alone for some time, in the cold atmosphere of 
men in business conference by themselves, when a deal’s 
a deal and everything reduces itself to plain black and 
white, to hard dollars and cents. He had worked them 
up to a certain point of interest, but they were pre¬ 
senting doubts as well. It needed the feminine touch 
to smooth matters out. He hadn’t wanted to bring 
on Polly too soon—but now, he felt, the psychological 
moment had arrived. 

“Well, let’s find out,” he replied to Kennedy, but 
with a glance that covered all his audience. “Morris,” 
he summoned the boy, “will you ask Miss Pierpont to 
step in here?” 

As Morris shot toward the private office, the three 
visitors rose with one accord and with alacrity, while 
glances and murmurs of astonishment passed rapidly 
among them. 

“I didn’t know she was here!” cried Kennedy. 

“I don’t want to be the one to ask her!” exclaimed 
Nathan, looking at Jones. 

“I’d be ashamed to suggest such a thing!” Jones 


SELLING SHARES IN MISS PIERPONT 129 


responded, with a gesture that washed his hands com¬ 
pletely of the dreadful situation. Surprise and em¬ 
barrassment swept the little group like a gale, and left 
them standing awkwardly silent, awaiting develop¬ 
ments. 

Morris flung open the private door with a mag¬ 
nificent flourish. 

“Will you come in, please?” he said impressively. 

A moment’s pause of breathless suspense; and then 
into the office swept a radiant vision. Polly, arrayed 
in the new imported costume, entered nonchalantly— 
a vision in the latest shade of royal blue, and a vision 
as gracefully at ease as a butterfly on a June morning. 

If Bob had cherished any alarm at her panic of a 
short time before, that alarm was now still. He drew 
in his lips and hastily suppressed the whistle that al¬ 
most escaped—a whistle of astonished admiration. 

“Golly, but she’s su—perb!” he said to himself. 


CHAPTER X 


A DEVIL OB AN ANGEL 

Bob’s manner was entirely matter-of-fact, which, in 
the face of the others’ embarrassment, made him now 
master of the situation. “Come right in, Miss Pier- 
pont,” he said easily as the young lady paused just 
inside the door. She stood there for a moment, sur¬ 
veying the group with a graceful ease and a charming 
smile. 

“Aoh, haow do you do?” she addressed them in her 
most flawless South Carolina drawl; and she advanced 
into the room as they roused themselves from dumb sur¬ 
prise and stepped forward to greet the radiant vision. 

Jones nervously stroked and carressed his tiny blond 
moustache. “It’s so nice to see you again, Miss Pier- 
pont,” he assured her, and drew himself up to his 
lengthiest elegance, bound to make an impression. 

Nathan mumbled in the depths of his embonpoint. 

“I didn’t know we were to have that pleasure today,” 
he said. 

Kennedy, more at his ease, shook hands with her 
cordially. “How do you do, Miss Pierpont?” he said, 
in a manner of old friendship that helped dispel the 
embarrassment for all. Now that they were over their 
surprise they were as eager as ever to surround the 
honey bush 0 


130 


A DEVIL OR AN ANGEL 


131 


Bob took up the business problem under considera¬ 
tion. “These gentlemen,” he said to her, “rather 
doubt that you understand the terms of the agreement 
that I am proposing.” He looked her steadily in the 
eye; he had coached her as carefully as time permitted, 
and she was a marvellously apt pupil, but their prepa¬ 
rations had of necessity been very hurried, and the 
developing circumstances forced him to shift, to create, 
to watch and adjust the game constantly as he went 
along. Would she be able to play her part and play 
wisely ? 

She was a bit at sea as to just the right thing to 
say, but she was wise enough to temporize lightly and 
feel her way to safety by observing, in jest: 

“Aoh! Do Ah have to undahstand all those business 
things? You men talk about such uninteresting mat- 
tahs—dollahs, and cohporations, and net retuhns, and 
all sohts of queeh stuff!” She made a pretty gesture 
of helpless feminine ignorance, and they all laughed 
pleasantly. 

“Indeed they do, Miss Pierpont,” Jones responded. 
“Being an artist, and not much of a business man 
myself, I quite agree with you. But I have at least 
a little business in my foolish artistic noddle, and I 
must confess it looks to me as though you’d have to 
understand these remarkable terms before anything 
could be done.” He glanced down at the prospectus 
still in his hand. 

Nathan, too, glanced at the paper, and then chuckled 
in the depths of his double chin as if the whole proposi¬ 
tion were quite the most ridiculous he had ever come 


132 


POLLY PREFERRED 


across. “Do you realize,” he asked her, “that Mr. 
Cooley’s plan is that you should become our property 
—that we buy you!” And again he chuckled at the 
absurdity of the idea. 

Polly had gained a brief time in which to collect her 
thoughts, and she had exchanged telegraphic glances 
with Bob, who had placed himself in a position to catch 
her eye and signal without being observed by any of 
the others. 

“Haow delightful!” she cried playfully. “Ah mean,” 
she added, “If you-all do!” 

Kennedy had a gallant inspiration. “I shouldn’t 
hesitate,” he told her with a cavalier’s bow, “if I could 
get the controlling interest!” 

“Well, can’t you?” parried Polly delightfully. 

Bob once more returned to brass tacks. “I’m sure,” 
he told them, “that Miss Pierpont understands our 
plan in a general way. We invest money to make her 
a successful screen star, and if that purpose is accom¬ 
plished she must regard herself as our property. Her 
work is to be ours—her life is to be ours—she is to 
do exactly what we ask her.” 

Polly cast an arch glance at him. “You mean as 
regahds business!” 

They all laughed at this salty, and it was evident 
that Polly’s mere presence was enough to blow away 
at least all minor doubts or discords that might arise 
in the party. Bob had indeed brought her on at the 
psychological moment. 

Nathan decided to take up the explanation bluntly. 
He didn’t believe the girl realty understood the thing 


A DEVIL OR AN ANGEL 


133 


at all—might as well call a spade a spade and have 
done with it. 

“You see, Miss Pierpont, it’s slavery,” he started to 
explain. 

Polly met this with her lightest, merriest smile. 
“Slavery isn’t so bad,” she responded, “if youh Mas- 
sahs are real nice. How long befoh Ah’m to be set 
free?” 

“If you are a success—not for five years,” Bob re¬ 
plied firmly. 

“Goodness!” cried Polly. “It’s as serious as getting 
married!” And again laughter greeted the felicitous 
fencing of the star. 

“More so,” Nathan told her. “There’s no Reno for 
unhappy corporations.” 

Bob stepped forward and looked at her with an 
air of serious consultation. “Will you tell us just 
how you feel about this arrangement?” he said. “We 
must have a very clear understanding all round before 
we can go any further.” 

Polly met his eyes and replied to him now with a 
seriousness equal to his, “Ah’ll try.” She was really 
almost solemn about it, and the others listened with like 
seriousness as she went on, speaking to them all, stating 
her position and her desire in the matter with the 
most convincing earnestness. 

“Mistah Cooley believes Ah can succeed,” she told 
them all. “And Ah believe—in Mistah Cooley. And 
sao Ah’m in his hands. Any agreement he makes foh 
me Ah’ll try to live up to. Ah daon’t mind being 
a owned—Ah daon’t mind slavery—Ah daon’t think 


134 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Ah mind anything if Ah can aonly justify his faith in 
me.” 

There was a deep silence. 

“Thank you,” Bob said to her. “I think that’s just 
what the gentlemen wanted to know.” 

But the practical Kennedy was not long lost to 
the monetary consideration, even though the spell of 
a lofty purpose had fallen upon him for a few mo¬ 
ments. 

“What about your remuneration, Miss Pierpont?” 
he asked. “Of course, if you give up your life to us, 
you must expect-” He paused for her reply. 

Polly too paused. She wasn’t quite sure. 

“Well-” she began, and silently prayed for assist¬ 

ance. Bob didn’t fail her—he cast her a secret signal 
to depart. She had turned the tide of feeling in a 
most happy direction, and now, he realized, it might 
be safer to have her out of the way where he could 
play the game with no risk of her making a faux pas. 
She was wonderful, she handled her cards like an 
adorable little sharper, but this thing of wireless-ing 
her at every turn was making his nerves pretty edgy. 

She caught his signal, and prepared to leave the 
room. 

“As foh remuneration-” she said to them all, 

“Mistah Cooley will arrange that. And Ah daon’t 
want to be heah when he does. If you’ll excuse me-” 

She went toward the private office whence she had 
emerged. Jones, accompanying her to the door, in¬ 
quired : 

“Will it be as embarrassing as all that?” 






A DEVIL OR AN ANGEL 


135 


“Ah daon’t knaow,” she replied, turning back a 
moment at the door. “Only Mistah Cooley wanted 
me to go into the movies because stage stahs aonly get 
fifteen hundred dollahs a week!” With which, and a 
ravishing little smile, she vanished. 

It caused something of a mental commotion, how¬ 
ever. Nathan wriggled uncomfortably, and puffed 
more than usual in his nervousness. 

“I didn’t realize that—at first—” he muttered, and 
the two friends glanced at each other, askance. 

Bob smiled away their misgivings. “Oh, Miss Pier- 
pont didn’t mean she expected anything like that,” 
he explained easily, and the others smiled their relief 
at what was now seen to be one of her bewitching little 
pleasantries. “In fact, salary doesn’t seem to interest 
her at all,” he went on. He picked up a copy of the 
prospectus and placed his finger on a line well down 
the page. “If you will look at paragraph nine,” he 
requested, “you will find in it her salary arrangement.” 

The three guests returned to their seats, and again 
took up their copies of the document, studying it 
carefully. 

“You see-” Bob called their attention to the 

line— “Two hundred dollars a week is all she is to have 
for the first picture.” 

A cloud of doubt passed from Kennedy’s brow like 
a thunder threat from a sky. “Aha!” he said with a 
nod of satisfaction; and his friend Jones took up the 
same thought: 

“That seems reasonable,” he said emphatically. 

But the ever-present Morris could no longer restrain 



136 


POLLY PREFERRED 


his knowledge, which tugged at the leash during every 
moment of this discussion. It was positive torture to 
him to stand still in a corner while these men were 
talking about a subject in ignorance, and there wasn’t 
a point upon which he couldn’t enlighten them! At 
last he could hold back no longer. 

“Reasonable!” he shouted, springing into the group. 
“Why, Jeannette Jennings gets two thousand a week, 
and she ain’t one-to-ten to this girl!” His enthu¬ 
siasm for the pictures, and his admiration for Polly, 
had united to form a torrent of excitement. 

“Morris!” Bob reprimanded him sternly. This 
office boy of his was incorrigible! But at any rate, 
this was better than having him discuss silk underwear 
over the telephone. 

Morris retreated shamefacedly, once he was recalled 
to himself. 

“Excuse me,” he murmured repentently. “I was 
just thinkin’ out loud.” Any of poor Morris’s 
thoughts, brought to daylight, would have revealed 
some film star in the foreground. He now slunk back 
to sit in his corner like a penitent pup that has been 
rebuked for wagging its tail and yapping too enthusi¬ 
astically. 

Bob continued setting forth the terms of Miss Pier- 
pont’s engagement which the others followed upon the 
typed page. “For her second picture, and this is 
only in case her first one is a success, she’ll get five 
hundred a week—and a percentage of-” 

At this point, while all four were deep in the pros¬ 
pectus, the outer door of the office opened, and a man 



A DEVIL OR AN ANGEL 


137 


entered from the corridor. All glanced up to meet the 
insolent eyes of Rutherford. 

Kennedy rose promptly to greet his friend. “Hello, 
Joe,” he said, and “Hello, Owen,” the other replied, and 
a glance of good understanding passed between them. 
Kennedy felt an immediate relief at Rutherford’s 
presence, and showed it; the burden of decision was 
instinctively shifted to these older and wiser shoulders. 

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Kennedy went on. 

Rutherford, well-dressed, almost good-looking, and 
with an air of ease as always, glanced around the 
group with a glimmering smile of sarcasm. Then he 
turned to the door which remained open in his grasp, 
and stared hard at the name displayed thereon— 
“Robert Cooley.” 

Jones, who also knew him, stepped forward now. 
“How are you, Rutherford?” he said cordially, and the 
other raised one eyebrow of surprise as he recognized 
the artist. 

“Ah, Jones!” he exclaimed. “You in this, too?” 

Kennedy, at whose request the other had come, now 
took upon himself the duties of host. 

“Do you know Mr. Harold Nathan?” he inquired, 
and the two men, with a conventional hand-grasp, 
murmured “Mr. Nathan” and “Mr. Rutherford” si¬ 
multaneously. Joe’s acquaintance was now established 
all around—with one notable exception. 

Bob, who had stood back while the others were greet¬ 
ing one another, now stepped forward. “How do you 
do?” he said to Rutherford in a tone of almost chal¬ 
lenging friendliness—as though some instinct deep 


138 


POLLY PREFERRED 


within him scented hostility in the air and was deter¬ 
mined to disarm it. 

Joe, his insolent ease still uppermost, looked him 
over. 

“This, I presume, is Mr.-” He glanced back at 

the sign on the door. “Mr. Robert Cooley,” he fin¬ 
ished. 

Bob’s cordiality increased. “I think I’ve met you 
somewhere, Mr. Rutherford,” he said, studying the 
other in return, “but I can’t remember just where.” 
And for moments that seemed long these two scruti¬ 
nized one another, each with a glimmering recognition 
in the background, and each unable to recall place or 
circumstances. Neither guessed the full significance 
that this recollection would bear, once it revealed it¬ 
self. 

“Hm!” muttered Joe. “Your face seems familiar 
to me, too. Been in these quarters long, Mr. Cooley?” 
he inquired. The question in itself was simple enough 
—it bore neither discourtesy nor distrust; but back of 
every word that Joe Rutherford uttered there was 
always lurking something that carried, even though in 
the slightest degree, a sense of arrogance and a sneer. 

Bob felt it all over. It seemed to pervade him, like 
an atmosphere. His was, in spite of a certain brazen 
bluff, a really sensitive nature, and such a nature al¬ 
ways knows when it is in hostile territory even though 
the enemy is hidden. He smelled trouble; he gathered 
his forces instinctively, knowing that he had a trial 
before him; he thanked his stars, in one fleeting moment 
of thought, that Polly was out of the way. He didn’t 



A DEVIL OR AN ANGEL 


139 


Want to drag her into something disagreeable, no mat¬ 
ter if he had to face the music himself! 

“No,” he replied slowly to Rutherford, measuring 
his words. “Not very long.” It was a safely non-com¬ 
mittal statement, he felt sure. 

Joe was sauntering about the office by this time, 
eyeing every feature of it. His glance took in fur¬ 
nishings, view, doors, the two portraits of Moseley 
and Webb concerning which the fertile-brained Morris 
had instructed Bob to “tell ’em Moseley’s a big director, 
and Webb, Theodore Roberts.” Joe paused an instant 
under the portraits, and the others stood still, ob¬ 
serving him. A vague sense of something brewing in 
the air possessed them all. And Bob, seeking to set 
forth the roles which Messrs. Moseley and Webb would 
have been greatly astonished to find themselves playing, 
now felt his tongue held as if under lock and key. 

“Those pictures are-” he began, but the expla¬ 

nation wouldn’t come. 

Joe did not notice his attempt, but his eyes slung 
themselves on to the sign once more. “I thought you 
couldn’t have been here long,” he responded deliber¬ 
ately. “I used to know this building quite well.” 

“Oh!” broke from Bob, and he slipped to the door 
with careful casualness, and closed it—the door which 
Rutherford had left open, and upon which, when it 
stood open into the room, the sign “Robert Cooley, 
Motion Pictures” was conspicuous. 

Joe continued his arrogant survey. “Nice prosper¬ 
ous-looking office,” he went on. “Motion picture pro¬ 
moting must be quite lucrative.” 



140 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Nathan hereupon entered the conversation with an 
interesting item of information which, as an advertising 
man, he felt it his duty to possess. 

“Motion pictures are the fifth biggest industry in 
the country,” he stated. 

The remark seemed to offer Joe the opportunity he 
desired. “Yes?” said he. “Too bad there are so many 
fools in it!” And his eyes swung around to Bob’s, 
and for a moment the two held each other in a search¬ 
ing glance. 

Kennedy wanted to get back to business. That was 
what he had brought Joe here for; and he didn’t want 
to waste his friend’s time any more than his own. 
He turned to Bob. 

“Mr. Cooley, will you explain the proposition to 
Mr. Rutherford?” 

But Joe took the reply out of Bob’s mouth. “You 
needn’t trouble, Mr. Cooley,” he said. “I’m not in¬ 
terested.” 

Kennedy showed embarrassment. He had been re¬ 
sponsible for introducing Joe to the new scheme; it 
was rather disconcerting to have him walking about 
with his nose in the air, apparently disgusted in ad¬ 
vance. 

“But I—I wanted your advice,” Kennedy stam¬ 
mered. 

“Then I’ll give it to you,” the other retorted. He 
crossed the room to Owen, bringing up squarely in 
front of him, and he impaled the younger man’s eye 
as he spoke with deliberate coolness. 

“If you feel like gambling,” said Joe Rutherford, 


A DEVIL OR AN ANGEL 


141 


“take the money you’re thinking of investing with Mr. 
Cooley and play some nice twenty-to-one shot out at 
Belmont tomorrow.” With a shrug he swung about, 
leaving Kennedy with mouth open, striving in vain to 
reply. 

Jones and Nathan glanced at Kennedy, at Joe, at 
each other. Perturbation had seized them. It was 
pretty plain what Rutherford thought of the scheme; 
and Rutherford, as a business adviser, was a name to 
conjure with. 

“You evidently don’t think much of motion picture 
investments, I judge, Mr. Rutherford,” Nathan said. 

But Jones, less keen on matters of merchandise than 
the others but far more keen on the merits of a pretty 
face, protested in defense. The charms of Polly blew 
away his scruples as they fluttered back upon his 
memory. 

“I don’t see how you can judge the merits of this 
investment until you’ve seen Miss Pierpont,” he put 
in. “She’s the whole thing.” Verily she was, to this 
connoisseur of feminine pulchritude. 

Bob hesitated. He dreaded bringing Polly back into 
this; Joe looked as if he might make things disagree¬ 
able; but of course, if these men were here to invest 
in a piece of property, they naturally wanted to look 
the property over and to have their adviser do like¬ 
wise. He went slowly toward the private door. 

Nathan perked up at the thought of her. “Yes, 
she’ll interest you, I’m sure,” he assured Joe. 

“And you know you’ve a reputation for being a devil 
among the ladies,” Jones added, his recollection of 


142 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Polly and his desire to see her again growing with 
every moment of her absence. Anything to get her 
back in their midst once more! 

Joe retorted to him with narrowed eyes. “It’s often 
better to be a devil than an angel,” he said. 

But Kennedy too was on the defensive by this time. 
In fact, Rutherford’s casting of doubt upon the whole 
scheme had met a very natural reaction throughout the 
group; where they had been dubious before, had cross- 
questioned and wondered, they now felt a strong im¬ 
pulse to defend their own folly, if it was that, in the 
face of Rutherford’s sneer. 

“Oh, look here, Joe,” Kennedy put in, “You’ve gone 
in on shows before now—just to give a girl a chance. 
And—why—Miss Pierpont would make all those little 
chorus friends of yours look like nothing at all!” 

Bob had halted with misgivings at the door of the 
private office; but this was no time to halt. The game 
must move forward, come what might. He must trust 
to his own wits and Polly’s to see them through. With 
an impressive air he flung open the door. 

“Will you please come in, Miss Pierpont?” 

There was a moment’s pause, while all the group 
of men faced the door, awaiting that radiant vision in 
royal blue; then, with a little flutter of silk as light as 
that of a butterfly’s wing, the star-to-be entered, 
smiling and unaware of any brewing storm. 

“Have they decided to buy me?” she asked, airy 
and adorable as a child. “I was just-” 

What she was just about to do will never be known. 
For at that instant, as she came brightly and chattily 



A DEVIL OR AN ANGEL 


143 


forward, a happy smile on her lips, she came face to 
face with Rutherford. She halted, dead still; for a 
dreadful moment the office reeled before Polly’s eyes. 
And as she continued to stand there, rooted and power¬ 
less to move or speak, these cruel, insolent eyes of his 
seemed boring into her—into her very soul. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE TEST 

Bob came forward. “Miss Pierpont, may I pre¬ 
sent Mr. Rutherford?” he said, breaking the silence 
blandly and becoming once more master of ceremonies. 

But still Polly did not speak. Those cruel eyes 
were still boring into hers, like sharp, glittering 
gimlets, and she was held impaled upon them. In that 
dizzy instant of recognition all sorts of dreadful 
memories crowded forward in her mind like the con¬ 
fused figures of a nightmare; Rutherford taking her 
position away from her, Rutherford following her 
in her forlorn state to the Automat, his insulting offer 
of “a little present,” his sneering comments upon her 
refusal, his whole personality as it had thrust itself 
upon her that day in the restaurant and was thrusting 
itself now, again. He was bound up in her mind with 
her bitterest defeat, he was her Fear, like a bogey 
lying in wait for a frightened child, and he returned 
now to shatter every hope again just in the moment 
that promised rosy as a sunrise. She stood wretch¬ 
edly dumb, and still those ugly eyes bored into her. 

Joe removed his hat with sarcastic deference and 
came closer to acknowledge the introduction. “How 
do you do,” he said with an elaborate pretense of gal¬ 
lantry. “Miss —Pierpont .” He emphasized the name 
144 


THE TEST 


14)5 


to suit his own sense of humor. “Quite a surprise,” he 
continued, “meeting you here like this!” And he stood 
close before her, head cocked on one side, face up- 
tilted in a sardonic smile of comprehension. 

Although the full significance of the situation could 
not be guessed by the other prospective purchasers, it 
was clear that something was wrong—and very wrong. 
The three cast querying looks at each other. 

Kennedy whispered to Jones. “My God, he knows 
them all!” 

Joe continued addressing Polly in his most sar¬ 
castic manner. “How you have changed!” he exclaimed 
to her in a tone of mock interest and admiration; and 
the others, looking on, strove to guess how, when and 
where Joe had known her and what the change might 
be. 

“I never supposed his feminine acquaintanceship ex¬ 
tended as far as South Carolina,” Kennedy dryly 
observed. 

Joe turned toward him upon this, with a mocking 
air of receiving interesting information. “South Caro¬ 
lina?” he inquired. “Oh, yes, of course! Pierpont is 
a famous South Carolina name.” Of a sudden he 
dropped his suave mockery and swung about. He 
turned upon Bob with the face of a terrier falling upon 
a rat. 

“And,” he snarled, “meeting her here has suddenly re¬ 
minded me of where it was I saw YOU! It was in a 
restaurant—and you wanted change—for a dime! I 
want to ask you a few questions, young man—in the 
first place, about this office! My friend, Mr.-” 



146 


POLLY PREFERRED 


The name of the office’s true proprietor had almost 
escaped from his lips; but at that instant something 
happened. Polly’s nerve suddenly came back to her. 
For all this time she had been paralyzed with shock, 
with fear; but now, all in an instant, she recovered 

herself. As the word “Mr.-” was falling from 

Joe’s hissing lips, Polly interrupted. 

“Aoh, Mistah Rutherford!” she exclaimed, with all 
the southern sweetness in her drawl, in her eyes—this 
little South Carolinian from Brooklyn and the neigh-' 
borhood of the gas works. “Just a minute-” 

Joe’s speech had been broken off. He turned back 
toward her, slowly; whether it was the appealing note 
in that “southern” voice, or a sense of humor, or mere 
irony—at any rate, as he faced her, he broke into a 
smile. 

“Yes,” he answered, “Miss Pierpont!” 

Polly’s throat was beating hard, but she managed 
her voice, her expression. Outwardly she was now fully 
at ease. 

“Befoh you-all staht talking business with these 
gentlemen,” she drawled to him, “Ah’d like to say some¬ 
thing to you.” 

She withdrew apart from the group, and Joe ac¬ 
companied her. “Yes?” he led on, pleasantly; and 
Bob cast a long glance after them, and perhaps as 
near an inward prayer as that young man was in the 
habit of uttering, probably went up. Golly, he hoped 
that luck and her own mother-wit would pull the girl 
through now! Rutherford looked like a dangerous 
party to be up against, and he was plainly against —at 




THE TEST 


147 


any rate, against the scheme, whatever he might be 
toward Polly. 

While Bob and the three earlier comers gathered to 
talk matters over, Rutherford and Polly held discourse 
at one side of the room. For a moment’s pause they 
surveyed one another. In spite of the scorn in his 
face, amusement twinkled in Joe’s eyes as he took in to 
the full the splendor of the imported costume, its rich 
texture, its style of design—and he didn’t miss its 
becomingness. 

Polly took the initiative. “This is what Ah wanted 
to say to you. Last time we met you seemed to feel 
that you owed me something.” She faced him steadily. 

“And you wouldn’t take it,” he replied, biting out 
the words with emphasis. “You didn’t accept favors 
from men!” Her refusal had rankled; her lofty dis¬ 
dain of his attempt to “square things”; above all, his 
vanity as a lady-killer had been damped with her wet 
blanket of indifference. Oh yes, he had it in for this 
young woman, with all her finery and her airs! Never¬ 
theless, whispered Joe’s ever-ready admiration, she 
was some queen! 

Polly protested. “That was money,” she told him. 
“This that Ah want to ask you is different.” 

They stood still for seconds, each pair of eyes ques¬ 
tioning the other. Would he, oh would he? hers im¬ 
plored. And should he, yes should he? queried his. He 
put it into blunt English at length. 

“What do you want me to do?” he demanded. 

“Don’t say it!” was her beseeching reply. 

“Don’t say what?” 


148 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“What you were just going to say when Ah stopped 
you.” 

“You mean,” he demanded indignantly, “that I’m 
to let this fellow swindle my friends?” His scathing 
tone returned, and he started to turn away from her. 
But once more her appealing voice drew him back. 

“Mistah Cooley was only trying to help me!” she 
pleaded, both for herself and Bob. 

Joe sneered angrily. “He’s told you that, has he?” 
Turning on his heel he swung back toward the group of 
men who stood in consultation. His eyes singled out 
Bob among them, as they all faced him. 

“Say, young man,” he demanded, “how many times 
have you worked this thing before?” 

Although he made no specific accusation, accusation 
in general was written all over him, and the purport 
of his question could no longer be doubted. Kennedy 
pushed forward, seeking enlightenment. 

“Look here, Joe,” he said, “what is all this, any¬ 
how ?” 

Rutherford, biting out his words, began: 

“Why, it’s a-” 

But he got no farther. With one swift movement 
Polly had crossed the room from where she had talked 
apart; she came straight forward, courageously, her 
little head high—if not with the pride of ancient line¬ 
age, at least with some pride of her own. Rutherford 
had held the dominating position before the group; 
with one quick gesture she now took it herself, con¬ 
fronting them, gathering all their attention to herself 
as she began to speak. And the words that she spoke 



THE TEST 


14<9 


were not drawled in lazy southern accent; they were 
spoken in straightforward New Yorkese, although the 
music of her voice could never desert Polly, for it was 
innate. But the drawl, the mannerisms, the affected 
airs and graces of Miss Pierpont of Charleston fell 
from her at that movement like a disguising robe, never 
to return. She was Polly Brown. 

“Pm not what you think I am,” she said, and her 
honest eyes swept them all without flinching. “I don’t 
come from Charleston. Pm just a chorus girl, and I 
live out in the Brooklyn gas house district. But My. 
Cooley hasn’t tried to cheat you.” There was a slight 
toss of her head as she took up Bob’s defense. “He 
just believes in me—that’s all. And all he’s done is to 
try to fix me up so that you’d believe in me, too.” 

For a moment it was an inarticulate group that Polly 
faced. She had passed through her moment of shock, 
and had recovered; but the three purchasers were just 
getting theirs. Nathan was the first to find words. 

“And this little group of men that were ready to 
back you-” he began with a sputter. 

“That was all a part of the fraud.” Kennedy took 
up his words. 

“It wasn’t a fraud,” Bob astonishingly put in. His 
nerve could hold out even yet, could it? the others 
inquired mentally. 

“Oh, wasn’t it,” sneered Kennedy. “Then what was 
it, I’d like to know?” 

But Bob did not depart one whit from his sober 
earnestness. He faced them as bravely and as proudly; 
as Polly, and stated his case as honestly as she. 



150 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“It was a psychological experiment,” he stated 
solemnly. 

With a burst of sardonic laughter Rutherford turned 
away; but Bob went on: 

“As Miss Pierpont says, I believed in her. I thought 
she had personality,—charm—and magnetism—but I 
wanted to make sure. Could I have found that out 
if I had shown her in shabby clothes and told you she 
was a nobody? I don’t know any more about motion 
pictures than you do—but I’ll tell you something I 
do know—I know human nature, so I dressed her up, 
and made her a somebody—surrounded her with a 
little glamour and mystery. What was the result ? The 
moment you saw her you were struck by her. She made 
you wonder. You were sure she had all the qualities 
I thought she had, and you wanted to put up money 
on her chance of success. There’s Miss Pierpont— 
the same girl she was ten minutes ago when you were 
raving about her. But you wouldn’t think of backing 
her now, and you call me a fraud and a swindler.” 

Bob paused for an instant, but not a sound was 
heard in the room. The others had their chance to 
speak, and they did not take it. They had been list¬ 
ening intently in spite of themselves; scorn curled their 
lips, and yet somehow their interest was caught. The 
dead earnest sincerity of the young man made some 
appeal of its own to the feelings of these men, all older 
than he, for all that their reason called him scoundrel. 

He swallowed, mopped his forehead, but he went on 
with the same earnestness. 

“But I don’t care,” he told them—not with passion, 


THE TEST 


151 


but as a calm statement of fact. “You can’t stop her 
success. I’ll find men to back her, and when they’ve 
made a fortune out of her, I’ll come around and say to 
you fellows—not T told you so.’ No. I’ll say, ‘Thank 
you. You told me so !’ ” 

He had come to the end. He had stated his case 
honestly. The whole situation lay before them—let 
them take it or leave it. Eor moments the silence held, 
then Nathan broke it. He had given attention, to be 
sure, but that was as far as he intended to go. To his 
judgment the young fellow stood self-accused, a swind¬ 
ler in their midst. 

“All this fine talk won’t do any good, Mr. Cooley,” 
he said. And, since he had started the ball rolling, the 
others took a hand. 

“No!” Jones cried. “You tried to get money out 
of us under false pretenses.” 

Kennedy showed even more bitterness than the others. 
All the cynicism of his face was in the foreground 
now. 

“Yes, you can’t get away from that,” he exclaimed 
angrily. “But we’ve had a lucky escape. I’m satisfied 
to let it go at that,” he added, in reply to his own 
thought as to whether to deal roughly with the fellow. 
He deserved if, but it was easier to let him off. “Come 
on, Joe,” he added to his friend Rutherford. “I’m 
going home.” 

He snatched the knob impatiently and flung open 
the door. But as he did so, a newcomer appeared, on 
the point of entering. The newcomer was a tall per¬ 
son of most meticulous attire; a man of middle age. 


152 


POLLY PREFERRED 


masculine enough in feature, but with an effeminacy of 
gait and expression that contrasted oddly with his 
altogether masculine physique. His voice, his motions, 
his mere gesture were almost ridiculously womanish; 
and the exquisiteness of his scarf, his dainty handker¬ 
chief, his mannerisms, bespoke the “old maid.” 

“May I come in?” inquired the gentleman. “I 
know I’m disgustingly late.” He entered with a minc¬ 
ing step; and yet, despite his effeminacy, he seemed 
somehow to take possession of the room as he entered, 
to make his presence felt, to dominate the entire 
group. 

“I had to go and choose some hangings for an 
Eastern thing I’m putting on, and they were just too 
fascinating!” 

Rutherford came forward now to greet his friend. 
For this was Crawford Boswell, the famous motion- 
picture director who was responsible for some of 
the most successful films that the art had accom¬ 
plished. He was known as effeminate, eccentric to a 
degree; he was laughed at for his mannerisms but 
wholesomely respected for his knowledge and skill; and, 
with all his womanish ways, he ruled with a rod of iron 
within his own domain. Rutherford had suggested his 
coming today in order to get expert judgment, and 
Boswell, whose engagements were pressing, had reluc¬ 
tantly consented. He supposed he had to oblige a 
friend, but really the whole affair bored him to death! 
Some new upstart who thought she could become a film 
star—their name was legion. How tiresome that he 
should be forced to waste some of his precious time in 


THE TEST 


153 


the futile task of telling her that she was a mere up¬ 
start ! 

“How are you today, Rutherford?” he said wearily 
as that person extended a hand to him. 

“How are you, Boswell?” Rutherford said cordially. 
He turned to the other “investors.” “I’d like you to 

meet-” he was beginning, when the bored Boswell 

interrupted him. He didn’t want his precious 
time wasted in meeting useless persons, forsooth! He 
crossed the room to a chair, and, entirely ignoring 
those around him, seated himself with an air of lord of 
the manor. 

“Don’t bother to introduce me to anyone,” he said. 
“Just let me sit down and listen. I never can remem¬ 
ber names so it’s no good, anyway.” 

The others stood back, silent and wondering what 
the next development of the situation might prove to 
be. Polly had slipped away to a corner where she stood 
unobserved. As Boswell seated himself, crossed one 
knee over the other and clasped his hands upon his 
knee, preparatory to “listening,” Rutherford took up 
the explanation in some embarrassment. He had let 
Boswell in for a useless visit, and he didn’t relish the 
task of apologizing to him. 

“Now you’re here,” he began hesitantly, “I’m afraid 
—you’ve come on—a wild goose chase. I’m sorry, 
Mr. Boswell.” 

But before matters could proceed further, Bob Coo¬ 
ley came crowding forward between the two, thrusting 
in his utterance where it wasn’t wanted. He had some¬ 
thing of importance to say and he was bound to say it. 



154 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Excuse me, Mr. Rutherford,” he put in, and then 
turned to the other. “Mr. Boswell,” he said, “I can’t 
think of anyone whose opinion I’d sooner have about 
Miss Pierpont.” 

The blase Mr. Boswell bowed with bored politeness. 
But his reply was addressed to his friend. 

“Mr. Rutherford, I’ve come here because you wished 
me to,” he said. “But about your chance of discover¬ 
ing an unknown girl with the qualities of a real star— 
well, it’s almost ridiculous!” With a delicately lady¬ 
like gesture he smothered a yawn; really, this matter 
bored him quite to tears ! 

But Bob continued, driving straight toward Bos¬ 
well’s attention. He was bound to get it—and hold it. 
This was his last chance. 

“But, Mr. Boswell,” he began, “if you could have 
bought a share in Miss Pickford’s future, or Miss Tal- 
madge’s—bought it before they were known!-” 

As he said it, Polly advanced quietly. She came 
from her retreat in a corner, moving gently forward un¬ 
til she stood beside the famous director. His bored 
glance rested upon the vacant air, however, he was 
merely enduring all of this for civility’s sake, but really 
he couldn’t do more. He was almost oblivious to his 
surroundings, and as for the fact that a pretty girl 
now stood beside him—she might have been the cat, 
for all he knew of her existence. 

Boswell replied wearily to Bob, “Oh, you’d own a 
gold-mine in that case—certainly, I admit that. But 
if you were around a studio and saw the thousands of 
girls that apply for work,—why, I really believe every 



THE TEST 


155 


girl in this country who isn’t positively cross-eyed 
thinks that she could be-” 

Casually he had lifted his weary glance. By sheer 
accident, that glance fell upon Polly where she stood 
beside him. He hadn’t even been aware of her ap¬ 
proach. As his eyes took her in—as they telegraphed 
her to his brain—Crawford Boswell stopped short in 
the midst of his words. He looked—he looked more 
fully—at last all his attention was riveted upon that 
slim little figure beside him. Polly stood motionless and 
calm; she didn’t speak, she didn’t smile; she merely met 
his stare with a serene poise. 

Moments of suspense held the entire group chained, 
while the director’s astonished gaze travelled up and 
down Polly. It took in her perfect costume—and, what 
was far more important, the grace with which she 
wore it. Polly Brown of Brooklyn might have worn 
imported gowns and hats all her life so far as her 
manner proclaimed. The gaze took in her figure— 
slender, willowy, slim but nowhere angular; it took in 
the line of the neck, the slope of the beautifully mod¬ 
elled shoulders, the poise of the little head, the delicate 
cutting of the features, the expressiveness of the large 
gray-blue eyes. In short, it took her all in, and with 
the closest attention to every detail; and in the end 
Crawford Boswell abruptly commanded her: 

“Take off your hat!” 

She obeyed, without a word. A mass of wavy auburn 
hair closely bound to her finely-shaped head was now 
revealed; the hair was dressed with the utmost sim¬ 
plicity, without any of the stuffings and humps and 




156 


POLLY PREFERRED 


bumps in unexpected places by means of which many 
a girl today imitates the headdress of a South Sea 
Islander. The wavy locks were pinned against the 
head in a simple roll, while here and there a wave 
would escape from pins and barrette. 

“Hmm!” observed Mr. Boswell profoundly. “Turn 
your face sideways!” he commanded, waving his hand 
with the gesture of an emperor commanding a serf. 
“Yes, that’s it,” as Polly silently obeyed. “Now, look 
at me. Mmm! An interesting face. The planes are 
good—sensitive—expressive—mobile. A good screen 
face. . . . Let me see you move!” 

Polly followed the directions given with careful at¬ 
tention, turning her face this way and that as her 
critic demanded. She now walked slowly across the 
room as Boswell’s gesture indicated; seated as upon a 
throne, that majestic person seemed to wave a wand 
that controlled a puppet. 

“Hmm!” he again observed, studying her movements. 
“Very nice—very natural!” he praised. Then, taking 
up conversation with fresh interest, he said to her, 
“They tell me you’re a southern girl.” 

In a flash Polly once more became Miss Pierpont, 
drawl and all. 

“Aoh, yes, Ah am!” she responded languidly. 

“I could tell it, anyhow,” Boswell responded with 
self-sureness, and at that the onlookers could not re¬ 
press their smiles of amusement. They might be sore 
at the way this young scoundrel had taken them in; 
they might, a few minutes before, have been ready to 
burst out in a fury of accusation; but this was getting 


THE TEST 


157 


to be rich, now! Boswell taken in too, sucker like 
themselves! They were beginning to savor the relish 
of a little game in which they were on the inside—quite 
a different sensation from being the suckers themselves! 
They cast glances of pleasure at one another, and 
waited—it would be rich to see this thing through! 

Boswell went on, pleased with his own astuteness. “I 
could never be mistaken. There’s a curious little subtle 
something about these Southerners—a distinction.” 

Bob came forward, taking up the matter. “From 
South Carolina,” he said. 

“Ah, yes, of course!” exclaimed Boswell. “Charles¬ 
ton ! How it does come out! Blood will tell! Blood 
will tell!” he repeated with emphasis. “How does your 
family feel about your becoming an actress?” he in¬ 
quired of Polly, for he well knew the prejudices of the 
aristocratic Old South. 

Polly replied with a smile. “Aoh, mah family were 
terribly upset!” 

Bob added a touch to the sketch. “The General is 
one of the old school,” he explained. 

At the title of “General,” Kennedy nudged his friend 
Jones. It had been “Colonel” only, heretofore, they 
both recalled, and a smile of growing enjoyment passed 
between the two. “Old Pierpont’s been promoted!” 
Kennedy whispered. 

Boswell overheard the whisper but did not catch it 
fully. “How’s that?” he asked, turning to Kennedy. 

“Nothing,” replied that young gentleman hurriedly. 
This was too good fun to spoil it by giving anything 
away! 


158 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Bob now thought it time to bring Boswell to a 
definite statement. “What do you think of her any¬ 
way, Mr. Boswell?” he asked with a touch of deference, 
as to a master mind. 

“Hmm!” The master mind thought it fitting to 
qualify its enthusiasm. “She looks like good material,” 
he had to admit, “but of course I can’t tell how she’d 
photograph.” 

Bob was ready to meet that, at least. “I can show 
you that!” he replied quickly, and stooped to the ma¬ 
chine which he had placed on the floor when making his 
arrangements. “Here, Morris,” he called, “give me a 
hand with this projector.” 

With the eager assistance of the office boy, Bob 
placed it on the table. The table was jerked about un¬ 
til it stood in a convenient position for throwing the 
pictures; Morris, falling over his legs and arms more 
than usual in his frantic delight, connected the ma¬ 
chine with a sconce light; the great preparations were 
made. Now Robert Cooley, promoter of the new and 
sensational enterprise, could show the assembled doubt¬ 
ers what his star could really do! 

Rutherford’s sense of humor had by this time so got 
the better of his indignation that he himself took up the 
little game of baiting Boswell. “So you really think 
Miss Pierpont shows promise, do you?” he asked the di¬ 
rector, joining him where he still sat enthroned. 

“I admit I’m pleasantly surprised,” the director re¬ 
plied. 

“But she’s an absolute novice!” continued Ruther¬ 
ford. 


THE TEST 


159 


“I don’t mind that so much. That only means she 
hasn’t learned all the stupid tricks and formulas—-but, 
has she talent? Can she act? That’s the vital ques¬ 
tion.” 

Even a good joke can be carried too far, and Kennedy 
was growing impatient by now to be off. “Look here, 
Joe—what’s the use of all this?” he fretted. “I’ve got 
engagements of my own.” 

But Rutherford was enjoying the whole affair hugely. 
“Wait a minute, Owen,” he whispered, joining his 
friend. “These two rather amuse me* Let’s see it 
through!” 

The cynical Kennedy turned sardonic. “You’re 
hopeless!” he groaned. But the aside between the two 
had reached no one else, and matters were progressing 
rapidly. “Whenever Joe sees a pretty face-” Ken¬ 

nedy was turning to mutter to Jones, but Jones was 
all engrossed in the operations with the machine. And 
as Bob gave the command—“Morris, pull down the 
shades!” and the room suddenly fell into darkness, 
everyone’s attention was riveted, whether it wanted to 
be or not, on the little show about to be enacted within 
those four walls. 

The preliminary light fell upon the white shade as 
upon a screen, and everyone within that room was a 
bit short of breath for some reason as the eyes glued 
themselves to the spot of light. Bob, tense at the ma¬ 
chine, operated it with about the same emotion with 
which a captain carries a ship through a storm—would 
he make it to land, or would the tossing vessel be flung 
upon the rocks in the end. Polly, behind him, felt her 



160 


POLLY PREFERRED 


heart hit like a hammer against her ribs, and her throat 
was tight with suspense as if a hand were clutched 
around it. As for the rest—the nervous tension seemed 
to pass like a contagion over even them, and it was in 
a stillness like death that a face blossomed suddenly 
upon the screen. 

Polly! 

Polly in repose, it was at first—demure, unsmiling, 
gazing straight ahead as if in thoughtful seriousness. 
Then the head turned—Polly glancing coyly up, Polly 
glancing meekly down, Polly flinging her head auda¬ 
ciously, Polly smiling mischievously. Through all the 
gamut of the emotions that face of Polly’s passed there 
upon the screen—she flashed from grave to gay, from 
grieving to saucy, from merry to beseeching. Not a 
mood but she gave forth, all with the turn of her head, 
the expression of her mobile features. The photog¬ 
raphy was execrable; it had been hurriedly and inex¬ 
pertly done; but, in spite of it, Polly’s power shone 
forth. She was an actress. 

“Where was this test taken?” inquired Boswell. 

“Up at the Fort Lee Studios,” was Bob’s prompt 
rejoinder. 

“Who directed it?” 

“I did.” 

“It’s terrible!” was Boswell’s frank opinion; but he 
added fervently his deep conviction—and in his few 
words lay all the climax of the little drama— 

“But she isn’t terrible!” was what Crawford Bos^ 
well said. 

Bob held his breath tight as he passed on with the 


THE TEST 


161 


film of Polly. She appeared in male attire now—short 
hair- 

“Ah, a boy!” Boswell exclaimed. “Wretched light¬ 
ing—dear me! Ah! Quite intriguing! Was that a 
wig ?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Polly meekly, while her heart 
hammered harder than ever. 

The film spun on, to the accompaniment of Boswell’s 
comments—his condemnation of the mechanical part 
of the show, but his impulsive praise of the actress. His 
approbation was ringing through every comment, his 
tone alone gave it forth even though his words of praise 
were few. The film was done—the room turned light 
again as Morris flung up the shades—and the silence 
was unbroken until Morris burst in with applause that 
he couldn’t repress. 

“Gee, that’s great!” he cried with fervor. “I’d back 
her for all I’ve got!” Morris’s capital consisted of the 
“five berries” that Bob had bestowed upon him earlier 
in the afternoon; but if it had been five million he 
couldn’t have expressed more unbounded faith. 

“Very nice,” began Boswell conservatively. It didn’t 
quite befit his dignity, he felt, to show too much en¬ 
thusiasm. Everyone stood watching him, awaiting his 
verdict. He rose, and turned to Polly. For another 
moment he fought with his own idea of dignity, at¬ 
tempting to patronize, to deprecate. 

“Of course, to give you a part would be taking a 
great chance,” he said in lordly style to Polly. But 
as he looked at her standing there, her eyes hanging 
upon his verdict, admiration got the better of him. He 


162 


POLLY PREFERRED 


forgot his airs and graces, he became a humanly de¬ 
lighted director who had made a great discovery. 

“I believe I’ve got the scenario that would just fit 
you!” Boswell cried. 


CHAPTER XII 


A NEW STAB, BISES IN THE SKY 

For an instant of amused surprise the four on¬ 
lookers at this little drama glanced about at each 
other and each one waited for some one else to break 
the bubble of Boswell’s “discovery”; at length the 
cynical Kennedy came forward, taking matters into his 
hands. 

“Now look here, Mr. Boswell, this isn’t being fair,” 
he exclaimed. “I’m not going to stand back and watch 
you being fooled by two people we’ve just found out. 
This young woman isn’t what she pretends to be at 
all-” 

Boswell stared at him in surprise and doubt. “You 
mean—that all this—this southern accent and manner 
was just—just-” he stammered. 

“Just bluff,” responded Kennedy. “She’s no Charles¬ 
ton society belle. She’s a chorus girl—from Brooklyn.” 

For blank seconds of astonishment the director 
stared at Kennedy. Then, of a sudden, an amazing 
light of joy spread over his critical countenance. To 
the surprise of everyone present, he burst into excla¬ 
mations of delight. 

“Then, by God, that’s splendid!” he cried. “She can 
act!” 

Bob and Polly, who had been tossed back and forth 
163 




164 


POLLY PREFERRED 


from the heights to the abyss in this rapid game that 
Fate was playing with them, stood silent, awaiting 
the outcome. 

“What?” demanded Kennedy. Surely, Boswell must 
be a fool! 

But Boswell went on, in a burst of enthusiasm such 
as he had not once before displayed. “What do I 
care whether she’s a southern society girl?” he cried. 
“She can act—she’s proved it. She can play a part 
well enough to fool me—and well enough to fool you— 
that’s what counts!” Now at last Polly was fully re¬ 
vealed to him in all her powers—and they were the 
powers of the past-mistress of her art. 

“Yes, but-” demurred the irritated Kennedy. 

“Why shouldn’t there be as much talent in South 
Brooklyn as in South Carolina?” cried Boswell. He 
was on the defensive now, and he fenced hotly. The 
girl was a perfect genius, and he meant to be her dis¬ 
coverer ! 

To the surprise of the others, Rutherford entered 
the discussion at this point with an air of interested 
attention. “Mr. Boswell, how much would this picture 
of yours cost?” he asked. 

“Not a great deal,” Boswell rejoined. “It’s mostly 
out-of-door stuff. One would get the cost back safe 
enough—my name would do that. He recalled a fact 
which, in his gale of enthusiasm, he had almost forgot¬ 
ten—that he was none other than the great Crawford 
Boswell. 

Joe thought the matter over. “I see,” he said 
reflectively. 



A NEW STAR RISES IN THE SKY 165 


Bob, still tense with all that hung upon the outcome, 
wanted something definite in the way of a statement. 
“Mr. Boswell, do you really think that the scenario is 
just the one to suit her personality?” he asked, and the 
men gathered around the discussion, giving attention to 
the full, even the the doubter Kennedy listening. 

Joe detached himself unobserved, from the group and 
slipped off to where Polly stood alone. 

“Miss Pierpont,” he began with a smile in which 
satire and admiration mingled, but from which his usual 
insolence was somehow missing just then, “you’re 
pretty anxious to have this project financed, aren’t 
you?” He said it low and deliberately, looking her 
straight in the eye. 

She smiled back at him. “You mean, ‘Does Polly 
want a backer’ ?” she inquired. 

“Yes, I do. What would you think of me?” 

“You?” cried Polly with at least an appearance of 
surprise and delight. “You more than anyone else!” 
she assured him. 

“Would you?” she asked in a voice such as has be¬ 
guiled Adams since the days of Eve the First. 

Joe smiled significantly into her eyes. “Well, now,” 
he said non-committally, “why shouldn’t we talk this 
all over across a dinner-table? We can drive up to 
Arrowhead-” 

Polly clasped her hands in glee. “You’re a real 
backer, aren’t you?” she exclaimed, and in a smile of 
friendly understanding the agreement was sealed, so 
that the formal question and answer were superfluous. 
“Will you come?” he said, and “I’ll be delighted,” she 



166 


POLLY PREFERRED 


replied. But the exchanged smile was equal to a hand¬ 
clasp of good-will and a pledge of success ahead. 

Rutherford’s eyes, glancing about the room, sud¬ 
denly fell on Bob, and as suddenly it occurred to him 
that this young man might be inconvenient—when it 
came to the matter of a girl. “Now, then, what about 
this Mr. Cooley?” he asked Polly in a low tone. He 
was wondering whether Bob ought not to be disposed of, 
neatly and quietly, in some way, before proceedings 
went farther. 

“I don’t know,” she replied, choosing to misunder¬ 
stand him. “Oh, Mr. Cooley,” she called across the 
room, “have you any dinner engagement?” 

Joe frowned, annoyed. “I didn’t mean that,” he 
said irritably. “I was simply going to ask you where 
Cooley comes in on all this. What are your relations ?” 

Polly’s answer was quite definite enough to give 
satisfaction. “Friendly but businesslike,” she replied. 

Joe’s brow cleared. “Good,” he muttered. The 
preoccupied Bob had not replied to Polly. 

“Now,” Joe said to her, “Go get your wrap, and let 
me attend to the rest.” 

With another glowing smile she slipped away to the 
private office which was serving as an impromptu 
dressing-room, and the men were again left to them¬ 
selves. Joe Rutherford advanced straight toward 
Bob. 

“Mr. Cooley, I congratulate you,” he said frankly. 
“You’re a good salesman.” 

Bob looked him in the eye. A compliment on his 
abilities was all very well, but business was business. 


A NEW STAR RISES IN THE SKY 167 


“Does that mean that you’ll take a share of Miss 
Pierpont?” he asked the older man, point blank. And 
he had hard work to suppress a shout of triumph when 
the reply came, prompt and vigorous: 

“I may take them all.” 

The tide had turned. Boswell had swayed the waves 
of feeling as the moon swings the sea about. From 
a state of righteous indignation, the emotions of the 
group had passed, first, to astonishment, then to won¬ 
dering investigation, and now to enthusiasm. Polly 
and Bob had been a pair of young scoundrels but a 
short time before; now they were a booming stock in 
the open market. On the instant that Rutherford, 
the shrewd investor to whom everybody turned for 
advice, announced that he might take all the shares in 
Polly, the others reached out greedy hands for shares 
of their own. This thing of letting Rutherford in on 
it and then having him grab the whole pie wasn’t going 
to go down, not much! 

Kennedy stepped forward quickly with an angry 
glance toward the friend whom he had invited there. 

“All?” he almost snarled at Joe. “What about 
me?" 

Joe shrugged. “You declared yourself out, didn’t 
you?” he retorted. Joe was never at a loss in a busi¬ 
ness deal. He combined the quick fencing powers of the 
lawyer with the nerve and intuition of the financier, 
and he didn’t intend to lose a chance when it came his 
way. “Why, you were on your way home!” he told 
Kennedy. 

Kennedy protested. “But Mr. Boswell says it can’t 


168 


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lose—so I guess if it’s good enough for you it’s good 
enough for me.” 

Jones now laid aside his artistic temperament long 
enough to look after his financial interests—as artists 
occasionally do. “I’ve liked the scheme from the first!” 
he announced. 

“So have I!” declared Nathan. 

“And we need Mr. Jones and Mr. Nathan,” Bob 
put in quickly. 

“ ‘We’ ?” inquired Joe significantly, and with dis¬ 
gust. So they all wanted to come in, did they, after 
backing down and letting Joe and his friend Boswell 
discover a good thing! Joe had quite forgotten, for 
the time, that he had been the first to declare Bob an 
imposter. 

Bob faced him coolly. “Yes, we,” he repeated. 

Again Joe shrugged. Oh, well, he decided, discretion 
is sometimes the better part of valor. Evidently the 
rest intended to be in on it—and he’d probably have to 
let ’em. Might as well take it good-temperedly. He’d 
be sure to get off well, in any case. 

“Well, Mr. Cooley, what’s your end of this?” he 
asked. 

“I want to be put in charge of the Sales Depart¬ 
ment,” Bob replied. 

“That’s all right with me.” 

“And—besides-” continued Bob. 

Rutherford’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, that isn’t all?” 

Bob stood in front of him like a boy asking for a 
square deal from his teacher. “Well,” he said, “I’ve 
done quite a bit of work!” 



A NEW STAR RISES IN THE SKY 169 


Kennedy was still sore over being so thoroughly 
fooled, even though he did want his share of the stock. 
He looked at young Cooley with lowering glance. 

“Sure you have,” he retorted with sarcasm. “Think¬ 
ing up ways of bamboozling us!” 

Bob turned to him, and met his sarcasm with a re¬ 
tort that flashed keen and self-controlled. “That’s 
just why I want—an equal share with the rest of 
you!” he stated. 

“For nothing?” inquired Rutherford. 

“No. I’m willing to pay—cash down—but I haven’t 
any cash!” It was as frank as the word of a boy, and 
it carried a certain appeal even to hard-headed men 
of business. 

“Hm!” mused Rutherford. “So you want us to 
lend it to you?” 

“Just enough to buy the stock and give me a year 
to pay it back.” 

Again Rutherford said “Hm!” He turned to the 
Director. “How about you, Mr. Boswell?” he inquired. 
He had now taken charge of the situation, acting 
as self-appointed Chairman; having been asked in as 
adviser, he felt it his right—now that he found the 
proposition suddenly becoming interesting. 

Boswell folded his arms with a gesture that indi¬ 
cated deep meditation, and gazed thoughtfully upon 
the ceiling. 

“Well, my salary for directing a picture is ten 
thousand,” he observed, “but in this experiment I 
shouldn’t mind taking it in stock.” 

“These artistic temperaments seem to have an eye 


170 


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to the main chance, a good deal like the rest of us,” 
Joe remarked in an aside to Nathan. Aloud he said: 

“That’s splendid. Well, it’s getting late. Supposing 
we call another meeting for four o’clock on Monday?” 

Shades of Moseley and Webb! They rose before 
Morris, the guardian of the premises; they fairly shook 
their fists in the face of his alarmed indignation. On 
Monday—this would be the home of ladies’ silk under¬ 
wear, the office would have forgotten its brief dream 
of film-land as if that dream had never been. He 
sprang forward. 

“You can’t!” he cried with authority. “Not Mon¬ 
day !” 

Joe laughed. He knew the office well as Moseley 
and Webb’s, he had grasped the whole situation long 
ago, and he realized to the full the humor of it. 

“I didn’t mean here,” he responded. “At my office.” 
And Morris retired, reassured. 

Bob now assumed the lead. “Then,” he said to all 

the group, “It is understood that we each own-” 

he looked around, counting noses with an outstretched 
forefinger—“one—two—three—four—five—six: a one- 
sixth share of ‘Polly Pierpont Incorporated’ ?” 

And in chorus the others solemnly agreed: “Yes.” 

“Then that’s all for this afternoon,” Bob said, dis¬ 
missing them impressively, and at that moment Polly 
re-entered with her coat on her arm. Smiling and 
nodding to them all, she swept across the room. They 
lined up to show her out; they were a retinue, waiting 
in attendance. She was indeed queen; upon her hung 
their fortunes. 



A NEW STAR RISES IN THE SKY 171 

“Good-bye, Miss Pierpont!” Even Kennedy said it 
cordially. 

“Good-bye!” she replied charmingly. “Thank you 
all so much. I’ll work so hard to make good for you— 
I will, really!” 

Nathan wheezed forward, pushing past the others. 
“My car’s downstairs, Miss Pierpont,” he said in¬ 
gratiatingly. “Perhaps I might see you home.” He 
was blissfully unaware of Joe’s little arrangement 
which had forestalled him. Kennedy and Jones, seeing 
that there was no chance for them, bowed themselves 
out and made off. 

Polly turned to Nathan with a smile that atoned 
for her reply. 

“Thank you so much, but I’m not going home.” She 
stepped back to where Joe stood. “Unless,” she in¬ 
quired of him, “it’s too early to go to Arrowhead?” 

“Not at all,” Rutherford returned with an air of 
satisfied possession. “You come with me.” This din¬ 
ner party was his, he told himself, and his alone. 
Nobody wanted as a third. 

Boswell, with an eye out for opportunity, put 
Nathan in the way of doing a good deed. “You can 
drop me instead,” he said to him. 

Nathan cast an expressive look at the director, but 
that suave person was not one whit withered. “I’m 
disgustingly late,” he went on. “Some chaps are giving 
me a dinner—too tiresome!” And there was nothing 
for Nathan to do but to go off with him and place his 
car at the director’s service. 

“Well, see you all Monday!” cried Boswell, turning 


172 


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to wave a hand to the others as he set off for his “tire¬ 
some” function. 

Rutherford took Polly’s coat from her and held it 
while she slid her arms into the sleeves. “If we’re 
early, we can run up the river a way,” he proposed. 

He led toward the outside door, and Polly accom¬ 
panied him, intent upon her dinner engagement, and 
not casting a glance or a word in Bob’s direction. In¬ 
voluntarily he was following them- 

Polly was chattering to Joe. “That’d be nice,” he 
heard her say eagerly. “I’d love some fresh air.” No 
wonder, after the mill that she had been through! 

And Joe was replying: “My car’s all open. Are 
you sure you’ll be warm enough?” He was looking 
down with solicitous tenderness; “damned solicitous,” 
Mr. Cooley observed to his own thoughts. Apparently, 
only one care on earth filled Mr. Rutherford’s mind, 
and that was the comfort and safety of Miss Pier- 
pont. 

“Oh, quite, thank you,” Polly was replying. “Isn’t 
this a nice coat?” she said, snuggling into the furry 
depths with a luxurious little wriggle. “I kind of wish 
it were mine,” she added, wistfully, and laughingly too. 

Suddenly Joe closed the door behind them as they 
smiled and chattered off upon their lark. They were 
gone. Bob found a closed door in front of him, and he 
was left behind with Morris. 

A wet blanket seemed to fall damply over him after 
his long strain of hope, fear, struggle, and final elation. 
The whole pitched battle had exhausted him; and now 
he found himself alone with the office boy, everything 



A NEW STAR RISES IN THE SKY 173 


over, the topsy-turvy office to be set to rights, a lonely 
and dull task ahead of him. Reaction set in. Gloomily 
he went about the work of putting things in order. 
Morris was bringing in the costume box from the 
private office, bustling about. 

“Wrap it up, Morris,” Bob instructed him in a 
sagging voice. All at once everything had turned 
drab. 

The door was flung open, and Polly rushed back into 
the room. She was flushed and glowing w T ith excite¬ 
ment. “Bob!” she cried. “It’s all right! It’s going 
through!” 

He was still dull, depressed, and slightly embar¬ 
rassed. Yes, the deal might be going through, he knew 
that; but somehow he felt left out in the cold, after all 
his efforts. 

“I had something to sell, that’s all,” he said wearily. 

“And no one but you knew I was worth anything!” 
she cried. And then, quite unconsciously, her arms 
went out; it was as if they had had an impulse to hug 
him then and there, so great was Polly’s excitement. 
“Oh,” she cried. “I think you are-” 

What Polly thought he was she did not reveal— 
perhaps a sudden wave of discretion passed over her. 
She turned quickly on her heel and went back to the 
outside door; paused with her hand on its knob. 

“Know where I’m going?” she asked. 

He nodded, still dreary. “Uh-huh,” he replied. 

“Know what for?” 

“I think I do?” 

She had her come-back then; it was her turn to 



174 


POLLY PREFERRED 


have a secret all her own, to be mysterious, to wag 
her head and give him to understand that he must be 
a good child and wait till he was told. 

“Well—you don't know!” she cried over her shoul¬ 
der. And now she was off. 

Morris, craning his lengthy neck in acute interest, 
had followed this little interchange, had observed the 
two as closely as he might watch a scene on the screen. 
He had not missed a look or a gesture—nor had he 
missed their meaning. Whether the two knew or not 
—Morris firmly believed that he knew. He walked 
straight up to Bob as the door closed behind Polly, and 
confronted him with his accusation. 

“Naw, you ain’t stuck on her—oh, no!” charged 
Morris with long-drawn-out irony. 

“Why, Morris, I only met her three days ago!” de^ 
dared his “employer.” 

But the office boy’s reply swept away Bob’s defense 
at one fell swoop. 

“What’s that got to do with it?” cried Morris. “I 
only met her this afternoon!” 


CHAPTER XIII 


“POLLY PIERPONT, INC.” 

The months that followed were months of magic for 
little Polly Brown of Brooklyn. If the wonder-working 
lamp of Aladdin had been placed in her hand, this 
world could not have been more completely made over 
for her. It was, indeed, like rubbing a lamp and find¬ 
ing—presto!—that she had entered a land where all 
the dreams of a lifetime have come true at once. From 
an unknown chorus girl, out of a job, dressed in a step¬ 
mother’s “made-over,” lunching frugally on the prod¬ 
ucts of an Automat’s five-cent slide, she walked forth 
the brilliant Miss Pierpont, beautiful, dazzling, dressed 
in Paris costumes, waited on at every turn by ad¬ 
miring followers, amply supplied with the wherewithal 
to meet every desire. 

It was all a fairy tale. Many a time did Polly 
Brown give herself a rousing pinch and say, “Wake 
up, you little goose! Don’t you know, you’re dream¬ 
ing? You’re sound asleep, and you imagine all sorts 
of glorious things are happening, and of course they 
can’t possibly be true. Such things could never come 
to pass! You wanted them so badly that you dreamed 
them, like any foolish little idiot, and when you wake 
up and find yourself on your uppers and chasing 
down every ‘Wanted’ ad, you’ll wish you hadn’t wasted 
such a lot of time in the dream!” 

175 


176 


POLLY PREFERRED 


But somehow the pinch never produced any results. 
She would look around, expecting to see her old 
Brooklyn bedroom—the wall-paper stained with time, 
the bed a hideous golden-oak monstrosity, the shabby 
window-curtains parting to admit a view of a big 
blackened gas tank. But that awakening never came. 
Instead, she was always in a delicious white and rose- 
colored bedroom, with California sunshine filtering in 
through dainty curtains, with the scent of California 
flowers filtering in along with the sunshine, with an 
exquisite dressing-table opposite on which were ar¬ 
ranged all the lovely toilet requisites that a dainty 
girl longs for. There were long, lean bottles of 
toilet water and expensive French perfumes; white 
brushes and combs and buffers and mirror, all 
marked with a handsome mongram—“P. P.” in 

gold letters; there were softly shaded lights on 
either side. And around the spacious room stood 
softly gray-tinted willow chairs with rose-colored 
cushions; always there were flowers in tall vases, the 
gift of many an admirer; fat five-pound candy boxes 
often added their adoring message. All the room be¬ 
spoke luxury, lavishness of living to the full. And in 
the midst of all this Polly gave up at last, and decided 
to go on dreaming, and enjoy it. Whether it was true 
or not, at least it was a long and delicious dream, and 
she gave way to it to the full. 

For promised things had happened—and then some. 
The tide which Boswell had turned in favor of Polly 
stock had swept on in an unbroken course. The men 
who had gathered in that stolen office on a Saturday 


“POLLY PIERPONT, INC.” 


177 


afternoon had, on the following Monday in Joe Ruther¬ 
ford’s office, organized themselves into a solid little 
company to promote their remarkable discovery— 
Polly. The shares had been allotted; Bob had been 
made Sales Manager as he desired and Crawford Bos¬ 
well had taken the directorship of the pictures under 
his personal charge. Jones had become art director. 
Rutherford, Nathan and Kennedy had eagerly cast 
their fortunes in with the scheme, and arrangements 
had gone on so rapidly that they fairly swept Polly 
off her feet. 

Boswell was certain that the scenario which he held 
was exactly the one for Polly’s debut, and the tests soon 
proved him right. The picture went well. But the 
second was to be the brilliant success. In this, the role 
of “Joan of Arkansas” was suited to her physical type 
—a slender, graceful Joan, girlishly charming, was the 
conception that Boswell liked—and it called for the 
vivacity and quickly-changing moods which Polly’s face 
recorded so wonderfully upon the screen. Boswell had 
lost his boredom before the company was equipped; 
he became so eager to set to work at the picture that he 
drove the others with a lash. They had to acquire a 
studio, cameras, all the lighting equipment, all the 
sets ; Boswell could hardly wait until these preparations 
were made. 

There was talk of establishing the new company 
somewhere near New York, but that was soon aban¬ 
doned. Boswell argued strongly for California, with 
all its advantages of rainless days for outdoor filming, 
and the convenience of getting assistance at any time 


178 


POLLY PREFERRED 


•*—plenty of people eager for jobs as “atmosphere” 
always on tap, and so forth, he urged. The upshot 
was that the company betook itself, bag and baggage, 
to the vicinity of Hollywood, and there Polly entered 
upon her career as a star. Rutherford ran out to the 
coast to look over the ground in advance, by no means 
loath to change his headquarters, for a time at least, 
to this land of gayety; Boswell, Jones, Bob and Polly, 
giving their entire time to the enterprise, moved to 
California for an indefinite period; and Kennedy and 
Nathan, as closely interested stockholders, took a trip 
to Hollywood to see the thing under way before return¬ 
ing to their New York headquarters. Nor were these 
the only acquaintances of ours who arrived at Holly¬ 
wood that season. 

Bob never once forgot his promise to the office boy 
—“If things break for me this afternoon I’ll keep you 
in mind.” Things had indeed broken for him—he had or¬ 
ganized a company, all in those short hours—and a few 
weeks later the office boy had fallen over his arms and 
legs in excitement at receiving a letter addressed to 
him. It was from the admired Mr. Cooley, telling him 
that a job awaited him with the new film company. 
The heavens were shining upon him! Morris blinked 
in the glare of the dazzling news! 

Boswell gave him a small position at the start, but 
the boy soon showed such a surprising adaptability 
that he was advanced rapidly as the work went on, and 
by the time the company was in full swing at its new 
California studio, Morris was launched upon his career, 
in charge of properties. 


“POLLY PIERPONT, INC.” 


179 


He, like Polly, had to pinch himself now and then 
to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Things had come 
true for him, too, just like a story—just like the 
wonderful things that happened on the screen itself. 
Morris might be just an office boy with a great many 
more arms and legs than he found convenient, but he 
too had rubbed Aladdin’s lamp. 

As for our other old friend—Polly was no less loyal 
than Bob, and when she found herself established as 
star of a success-bound company, she said to Boswell: 

“There’s one young lady whom I wish to have given 
a good position in our cast.” 

Boswell put on his most bored expression. “Oh 
dear!” he exclaimed, “We can’t be adding on all sorts 
of young women that think they have talent!” 

But Polly looked him firmly in the eye. “This one 
doesn’t think she has nearly as much as she really has , 
and I wish her,” she said; and somehow Boswell de¬ 
cided that it’s not always wise to go against the 
wishes of the star. So a telegram sped over the wires 
from California to New York; and the outcome was 
that, almost as rapidly, there sped from New York to 
California—Miss Jimmie. 

The happy, busy days stretched on into weeks, 
months, in California sunshine. The new picture was 
done with the utmost care, and it was no easy task, for, 
with the exception of Boswell, everybody in charge was 
new at the game. But fervor makes for success; and 
they soon acquired the necessary technical knowledge. 
A little drilling, and Polly was whipped into shape— 
her quickness of catching the technique was marvellous, 


180 


POLLY PREFERRED 


even the blase Boswell had to admit. Professionals in 
the minor roles helped things along, although many 
scenes had to be re-taken; weeks were spent—long, 
hard-working weeks—but in the end it was released, 
and met with favor. Then came “Joan of Arkansas” 
with Polly in the title role. It needed but one showing 
to prove its success. It “got over” with a leap. It 
stirred the spectators through and through. In it, 
“Joan” made them laugh, pity, thrill, weep, love, hate, 
and rejoice with her. She led them through the 
gamut of the emotions and left them slaves to her 
charm in the end. 

But the life of the screen actor is not all skittles and 
beer. Polly was soon to learn that, in spite of all the 
luxury and admiration with which she was surrounded, 
there were days of harder work than she had ever known. 
Days when a scene must be done over and over because 
somebody makes a mistake, or because a director is 
hard to please. Days that begin early in the morning 
and don’t end until late at night, when an indoor set 
makes it possible to work by artificial light. Once, 
when there had been a week’s serious delay and time 
must be made up, Boswell insisted on keeping at it 
all night long, and Polly’s midnight lunch was handed 
up to her—a sandwich and a glass of milk—where 
she leaned forth from a window in the set. It was five 
in the morning before she was allowed to go home. 
She wished, at those times, that all the foolish and un- 
talented girls who sought to enter the movies for 
vanity’s sake alone could know of this, and think it 
over before buying a ticket for Hollywood. 


“POLLY PIERPONT, INC.” 


181 


But for herself, she never knew a moment of regret. 
She was a sturdy young thing under that delicate ex¬ 
terior, and she endured the hard work and throve upon 
it and still believed it all too good to be true. She 
loved the luxury that life had brought her; and she 
loved the labor, too. It wasn’t idleness that she had 
dreamed of and longed for; it was opportunity, and 
now she had it. Opportunity to show what she could 
do, to give her great gift a chance. For she knew that 
she had a gift; she acknowledged it in all humbleness 
of spirit, and was grateful for it. 

There was no vacation after the long weeks of work 
upon “Joan.” It had run into several months before 
the picture was ready for release. Now it was sent 
forth, and the company was hard at work upon a new 
scenario, and the days were busier than ever. 

From the luxurious suite where Polly made her home, 
and to which she had given the magic touch of her 
personality so that friends gathered there eagerly in 
her few off-hours, she went daily to her work as 
all the envied stars go—quite as regularly, and some¬ 
times quite as wearily as the dinner-pail road-worker or 
the trudging factory girl. The only difference is that 
the envied star usually puts in longer hours and works 
under a heavier strain of responsibility than these 
others. But Polly would clap on her hat, jump into 
the waiting car, and be off light-heartedly, no matter 
how hard the work. Her way led to the large studio 
where the company took its pictures and had its offices. 

Rutherford, as business head of “Polly Pierpont, 
Inc.;” Bob, as Sales Manager; and others, had their 


182 


POLLY PREFERRED 


private offices there. Plain, barely furnished little 
dressing-rooms for the actors stretched in a row be¬ 
yond. These were neatly kept but no more luxurious 
than so many stalls in a barn, for the movie star leaves 
luxury behind her when she turns to the work-shop. 
Work is work with these envied people. In the main 
office of the building the actors and managers and all 
the rest concerned came and went, discussing business 
affairs, audiences, receipts, and all the things that go 
to make shop talk in the film world. Motion picture 
magazines lay scattered about; portraits of the leading 
actors hung on the wall; large show-bills depicting the 
star herself as “Joan” were displayed on every side. 
And it was here, in the main office, that Jimmie might 
have been found one day, sitting alone and with her 
nose buried in one of her favorite magazines just as it 
had been buried exactly twelve months before, when 
we first met her in the Automat so near Broadway. 

Jimmie was attired in a maid’s costume—such a 
costume as the maid of the stage or screen always 
wears. The cap is always impeccably starched and 
ironed, the apron is always fluffy-ruffly to a degree. 
Jimmie was quite fetching in the role; she was ap¬ 
parently awaiting a cue, while in the lot beyond could 
be heard the strains of a violin, where the camera men 
were “shooting” a scene. The excited voice of Craw¬ 
ford Boswell could be heard, giving his directions, 
ordering the actors about, manipulating them as if they 
were puppets and he held the wires. A director is often 
the real actor of the play; he passes from role to 
role, from villain to heroine, from heavy to ingenue, 


‘TOLLY PIERPONT, INC.” 


183 


showing the lagging actor what movements, gestures, 
and facial expression will carry the desired effect. 
Crawford Boswell went farther than the most in this; 
he was never satisfied, always hard to please, and he 
showed his actors how to enact each scene to the most 
minute detail. 

“Open the door—now you’re leaving—good-bye —au 
revoir!” he could be heard shouting as he moved a 
puppet through his paces. “Au revoir —oh, go on, go 
on!” he cried irritably. “All right—cut! That’s all 
for the extras.” 

The violin music ceased at his command, and the 
extras entered from the lot and passed on to their 
dressing-rooms beyond the office. Again the shout of 
Boswell could be heard, and this time it rose shrilly, 
in an excess of irritability. 

“Beady for the maid’s entrance. The maid! The 
maid! Where is that maid?” 

Jimmie woke from her trance where she had been 
lost in the fascinating pages of the magazine, and 
jumped up at her call. The magazine fell to the floor, 
she snatched a tray, brush and comb—her properties— 
from where they stood upon a table, and rushed forth 
to the lot to take her part in the picture. As she 
departed, there entered a man at the street door of the 
office, speaking to someone who came behind him. 

“I’m glad to see you back, sir,” the man was saying. 

“Thanks, Henry,” the reply came—in the voice of 
Bob Cooley. And the two now entered the office, 
Henry seizing Bob’s bag—that young man wearing the 
air of a traveller just off the train. 


184 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Oh, Henry, I want to get something out of that 
bag,” he said as the other was making off with it, and 
the bag was placed upon the table. 

Although somewhat the worse for travel, Bob Cooley 
wore, from top to toe, the appearance of prosperity. 
He had always been well-dressed, for he counted that 
an article in the creed of successful business; but now 
the cloth of his garments was a more expensive cloth, 
the tailoring a more expensive tailoring. Conserva¬ 
tively in good taste, as always; but hat, suit, bag and 
minor items of apparel were all of the best to be had. 
And he gave his good-tempered orders as a man who 
had given orders and had them obeyed all the days of 
his life. 

“And how was your trip, sir?” inquired the defer¬ 
ential attendant. 

“One blaze of glory, Henry. ‘Joan of Arkansas’ is 
the picture of the year.” 

“Ain’t that great, now!” cried the delighted Henry. 
He almost felt that he had had a part in the triumph, 
even though Henry’s duty was to fetch and carry for 
stars and managers. 

Bob had by this time extracted what he wanted from 
the bag. “Put these things in my office,” he said to 
the attendant, and took up a large square box wrapped 
in the daintiest of pink paper and bound with a gilt 
cord—such a package as only a confectioner knows 
how to put up. Henry’s sagacious eye caught the 
shape, tint and tying; the significance of the packet 
was not lost upon him. 

“Miss Pierpont’s on the set, sir,” he said. The reply 


“POLLY PIERPONT, INC.” 


185 


might have sounded irrelevant to the casual listener, 
had there been one; but its relevance was clear enough 
to Bob. 

“Then I’ll put this in her dressing-room,” he re¬ 
sponded, and bore it off himself to its destination, 
while Henry carried his bag away in the other direc¬ 
tion. 

As Bob returned from leaving the pink packet in 
Polly’s dressing-room, he came face to face with a 
lanky young man who entered with a camera. The 
young man’s lengthy and ungainly legs were clad in 
the knee-trousers which betoken the motion picture 
studio; he was immaculately groomed, with a touch of 
style; nevertheless no raiment could hide the awkward¬ 
ness of Morris. 

“Oh, Bob!” he cried cordially. No longer Mr. 
Cooley! 

“Are you a camera man now?” Bob inquired, greet¬ 
ing him. Henry, passing through the room on his 
return from Bob’s office, cast a deferential bow toward 
both of these important personages. 

“No, it’s busted,” Morris replied to Bob’s question. 
“But I’m assistant director, and that’s better than 
wrastling props like I was doing when you went away!” 
Morris’s promotions had come so fast as to make him 
dizzy. 

“Congratulations, Morris!” Bob cried warmly. The 
boy whom he had befriended and who had befriended 
him was doing him credit, Bob reflected with satisfac¬ 
tion. 

Morris continued volubly, as always. “You come 


186 


POLLY PREFERRED 


back just in time for this here annual meetin’, didn’t 
you?” 

“You bet your sweet life I did!” Bob answered. 
He wasn’t going to be left out of any business deal, 
not much, after the way he had conceived the whole 
proposition and started it in motion. He had made 
the wheels, then wound and set them going; and he 
was going to keep a sharp eye on their revolutions. 

He fumbled in his pocket for something, and at last 
found it—a check. Only a narrow slip of paper, bear¬ 
ing but a few words; but in those words a large story 
was told. 

“Want to see something pretty?” he inquired of 
Morris, holding up the check. “Just look that over!” 

Morris approached the slip of paper, and his eyes 
fairly bulged from their sockets as he read the words 
inscribed thereon. 

“Ten thousand bucks!” he cried, and his jaw drop¬ 
ped in amazement. “Where did you get it?” he de¬ 
manded, as if he could only believe that Bob had waved 
a conjurer’s wand and had caused the slip of paper 
to spring up out of the ground. 

“Big distributor lent it to me,” Bob replied, smack¬ 
ing his lips. “Knew what the stock was worth; took 
a chance on me.” He held out the check, gazed fondly 
down upon it, stooped and kissed it. That check 
meant more than it told, to Bob Cooley. For the com¬ 
pany had granted him one year to pay for his stock, 
and that year was now up. 

“Today at four P. M.,” he said solemnly, I’ll be a 
one-sixth owner of Polly Pierpont, Inc. Hereafter, 


“POLLY PIERPONT, INC.” 187 

Morris, when you meet me, don’t forget to take off 
your hat!” 

Morris’s eyes found difficulty in returning to their 
normal place in their sockets. “Gee, but you’re lucky!” 
he cried, gazing with admiration upon the check—and 
its possessor. This Bob Cooley had a knack, somehow, 
of making things come his way. He could create a 
genuine, material success out of a mere nothing—a 
soap bubble or a cloud seemed enough foundation for 
him. 

Bob gave a satisfied wriggle of the shoulders, and 
expanded his chest. 

“No, I’m not lucky,” he corrected Morris’s judg¬ 
ment. “But I’m a great business man—with a mar¬ 
vellous vision—and a wonderful brain!” He laughed 
good-humoredly and gave the boy a friendly slap on 
the shoulder as he said it. 

But Morris’s thoughts had suddenly started of them¬ 
selves along another trail, and something that had 
been on his mind of late, and had been growing heavier 
and heavier there, now came to the fore. He was 
devoted to Bob Cooley—Cooley had made him; had 
given him, a mere dead-broke office boy with a dream, 
his entree into the film world of his fondest longings; 
but Bob Cooley was not above all criticism when it 
came to a certain matter whereon Morris had done 
some brooding. Of a sudden Morris turned sarcastic. 
He crossed the room and stood close before Bob, look¬ 
ing him in the eye. 

“Yes, you are!” he cried. “Makin’ a contract sayin’ 
a girl can’t marry and then gettin’ stuck on her! 


188 


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That’s awful smart, ain’t it!” To Morris’s way of 
thinking this was both stupid of Bob and unfair by the 
girl; and Miss Pierpont had come to be the idol of 
Morris’s life, the goddess who dominated his paradise. 

Bob had stood more of this than he enjoyed al¬ 
ready, for Morris had never repressed his opinion on 
the subject, and the “great business man” frowned at 
him with marked annoyance. 

“Now, quit that!” he exclaimed. “Get it out of 
your head—and keep it out!” He turned on his heel 
with a snap. 

But Morris had a card of his own to play. “All 
right,” he retorted. “So long’s you don’t care nothin’ 
about her, you’ll be tickled to death to hear the news 
I got for you!” Triumph glinted in the depths of 
Morris’s eyes. But it was only a petty and superficial 
triumph; his real emotion was a sense of anxiety con¬ 
cerning his idolized star. 

“What news?” Bob inquired, turning casually about 
to hear. 

“Rutherford’s been here a week!” the boy announced. 
“And he’s bringin’ her flowers and presents every day!” 

Something queer and unfamiliar tightened Bob’s 
throat for the instant. He swallowed. Then he ob¬ 
served, casually, “Oh, he is, eh?” 

“Yeh,” replied the observant youth. “Ain’t it 
great,” he went on with what he considered his most 
masterly satire, “to have somebody around that is 
stuck on her, since you ain’t?” 

Bob was seized with a sudden and unprecedented 
desire to wring the long neck of Morris. “Oh, don’t 


“POLLY PIERPONT, INC.” 


189 


try to be funny!” he cried in his annoyance. He wished 
this conversation would come to an end, and yet some¬ 
how he seemed coerced to go on listening to what the 
eager informant had to tell. 

“Pm givin’ it to you straight,” Morris went on. “I 
think Rutherford’s expectin’ to live out here. He’s 
took a bungalow—a grand one—and Jones is fixin’ it 
up for him.” 

“Jones is!” 

“Yeh, Jones.” Morris almost smacked his lips over 
all his news items; the bearer of surprising news always 
relishes the surprise it is his privilege to cause. 

“But she don’t pay no ’tention to Rutherford,” 
Morris went on. He relished that, too. “She treats 
him like dirt—and makes him like it.” 

But at this point the discussion of the star was 
broken off, by the entrance of that young lady herself, 
released from her work in the lot; and the sudden light 
of pleasure that shone in her face as she saw the newly- 
arrived Bob, might well have caused any admiring 
heart to leap. 

“Oh, but I’m glad to see you!” she cried joyously, 
coming forward to greet Bob, both her hands out to 
him; and Morris, with more tact than anyone had ever 
given him credit for, saw her eager gesture and 
promptly inquired: 

“Do you t’ink Boswell needs me?” 

“Yes, Morris, I thiink he does,” Polly replied with 
pleasure. And the adoring Morris departed with a 
wise wag of his head. 

“I thought you thought so!” he observed as he dis- 


190 


POLLY PREFERRED 


appeared. Morris never dreamed of adoring save at a 
reverential distance; and whatever he could do to add 
to the happiness of his goddess would never be left un¬ 
done. If she merely wanted to get rid of him, she 
should have her desire. Polly and Bob, alone now, 
smiled into each other’s eyes, as their hands met in an 
old-friendly clasp. 

“Pm so glad to see you home!” she told him ar¬ 
dently. 

“I’ve only been away eight weeks,” he reminded her. 
He was wishing, in the depths of his mind which even 
he himself did not see, that it seemed more than eight 
weeks to Polly! 

It did, and she knew exactly the fact. “Eight weeks 
and three days!” she corrected him. 

He smiled delightedly at her exactness. “You 
haven’t any idea how I’ve missed you on this trip!” he 
told her; and “Did you, really?” she asked; and again 
they smiled into each other’s eyes. 

But the little winged god, as yet, kept his own coun¬ 
sel. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A STRING OF PEARLS 

Polly and Bob settled down cosily to their chat after 
eight weeks—and three days !—of separation. He had 
been on one of his important business trips clear across 
the country, making arrangements for the release of 
pictures, their advertising and promotion in general. 
With his characteristic good-natured hustle he had 
gone from city to city, making new friends and re¬ 
viving old ones, bringing business his way by his pre¬ 
possessing personality and obvious straightness, the 
qualities that tell in the higher business circles. Bob 
was born for the sort of work he had taken up, and it 
was his good fortune that he had recognized his own 
talent early in the game—and set about preventing 
it from being buried. 

“Did you really miss me ?” she had asked him eagerly, 
longing to hear him repeat his own words; but now 
he cast a wet blanket over them by his further remark: 

“I should say I did miss you! Wanted you along, 
just to see how the audiences were eating you up!” 

“Oh!” said Polly. It wasn’t her he had missed, 
then; it was Miss Pierpont, the star, with whom he 
held professional conferences! 

But Bob was all unconscious of the tone of disap¬ 
pointment in which that faint “Oh!” was uttered, and 
191 


192 


POLLY PREFERRED 


he pushed on with his report, eager as a boy over the 
great success. 

“The night I landed in Chicago I went to see Joan,” 
he told her. “Well, I don’t know how to tell you of the 
thrill I got. They’d kept the picture over for a second 
week—something they hardly ever do in that theater 
•—it’s a great big place—and it was packed and jammed 
so it was all I could do to find a place to stand up.” 

“Really—was it like that?” 

“Fact. And when I looked at that gang, and realized 
you’d brought them there, it made me tremble all over.” 

“Bob!” 

He was calling up a memory. “Polly,” he said, “you 
know that bit where you see the little kid on crutches ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I watched that when you were shooting it— 
and I saw it fifty times after that—but that night— 
the way it was holding them—and the music—and that 

big round of applause afterward-” His voice 

dropped; he was staring far away, at something that 
his physical eyes did not see— “that night,” he said 
huskily, “I found myself crying like a damn fool!” 

A light of happiness flamed up in Polly’s face, al¬ 
though her voice trembled a bit as she murmured: 

“Did you, Bob?” 

He nodded. “I had a flash of a little girl,” he said, 
still in a husky voice. “A little girl in an Automat— 
looking at me—over the top of her coffee cup!” 

“Bob—oh, Bob!” Polly whispered. 

He shook himself out of a reverie. “Saw your father 
and all the family when I was in New York.” 



A STRING OF PEARLS 


193 


“How are they?” She wondered, as she asked it, 
just how much she really cared? A great deal more 
than she would have expected, it occurred to her; life 
had been very drab in their Brooklyn midst, but some¬ 
how she did want to know all about them, and to think 
of them as getting on happily and prosperously. A 
large share of the great prosperity that had come to 
Polly Brown during the past year of marvel had been 
passed on to that little household in Brooklyn; never 
once had she forgotten them, and her generous heart 
had dictated many a generous check. 

“They’re living like kings and talking of nothing 
but you,” Bob reported, and she smiled happily at the 
picture. It was by no means the least of warm-hearted 
Polly’s joys that she had been able to wave a wand 
over the small home beside the gas works. 

“Your dad’s gloating,” Bob went on. “He showed 
me every picture of you right back to one of you at 
three months old lying in a big sea-shell!” 

Polly blushed. “Oh, he didn't show you that, did 
he!” she cried. “How perfectly terrible!” 

“Why terrible?” demanded Bob in brotherly frank¬ 
ness. “Why, I was just like one of the family! I told 
your dad so—told him I couldn’t love you any more 
if you were my own sister!” 

Somehow, although she didn’t know it, and would 
have denied it if anybody told her so, Polly’s face fell. 
“How nice of you!” she replied coolly, and seated her¬ 
self on a settee at the other side of the table from where 
Bob stood. “Sister, indeed!” she thought. 

Bob took up a train of thought of his own. “I hear 


194 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Rutherford’s been here a week,” he observed, and 
watched her with some keenness. 

“Yes, he has,” she replied. She paused. Then she 
remarked, “You can’t imagine what he thinks!” 

“What?” 

“He thinks you’re in love with me!” Polly told him, 
and now it was her turn to watch him with some keen¬ 
ness. 

He burst into laughter. “Can you beat that?” he 
cried, as if the idea was quite the most amusing that 
he had heard in many a day. Absurd he said to him¬ 
self, how everybody, from a financial manager to an 
office boy, would jump to the same conclusion if a chap 
was caught so much as handing a box of candy to a 
girl! 

“Isn’t it amusing?” said Polly demurely. 

“It’s rich!” Bob lingered over the richness of the 
joke. “Have I ever done one thing,” he demanded 
now, “to make anybody think I’m in love with you?” 

And Polly, still demure, replied: 

“You’ve certainly never done anything to make 
me think so!” 

He took up the matter seriously now, and replied 
to her in the most straightforward manner, oblivious 
to any hidden meaning in her words. 

“I know I haven’t,” he said frankly. “I’ve tried my 
darnedest never to let anyone see—I mean,” he cor¬ 
rected himself, “it’s all so foolish!” His words and his 
ideas seemed to get confoundedly jumbled, somehow; 
he couldn’t make much out of the jumble himself. 

“Getting married is the last thing I’d ever think: 


A STRING OF PEARLS 


195 


about,” he went on, stating the conviction that had 
held him even from boyhood. He had long ago vowed 
himself to success, and success alone; he had seen other 
fellows tangle themselves up with girls, had seen how 
it cut into all their ambitions, how it often swept away 
their success by leading them to idleness and dream¬ 
ing. None of that in his! He had pledged to his am¬ 
bition when he had been so young that his insight was 
precocious. Let girls get mixed up in your life, and 
everything got wound in a snarl, there was no un¬ 
tangling yourself. But keep the path ahead swept 
clear of all nonsense, all silly moonings and maunder- 
ings, and you could see the signposts clearly on your 
way to your goal. 

“I always said that marriage shouldn’t upset my 
plans in any way, and I’ve stuck to it,” he said, as much 
to his own thoughts as to Polly. “In the first place, 
I can’t afford it—it’s a luxury. That is, I can’t af¬ 
ford it until I get my share of you!" 

She started a bit, and looked sharply at him. “Your 
share of me?" she said. Then his meaning came to her; 
again her face fell. “Oh,” she observed. “You mean 
your share of stock.” 

“Yes.” Obvious to him—why not to her? 

Polly was thinking, and hard. “So,” she said slowly, 
“if you ever do get married—it will be owing to me?” 

And, whatever meaning may have lain behind his 
words, his reply was: 

“You bet it will!” 

She was pondering it all. He had made her—but, 
also, she had made him. He had discovered her, dressed 


196 


POLLY PREFERRED 


her, put her in the shop window and brought in the 
purchasers. But, likewise, she had worked, had stud¬ 
ied, had striven without ceasing to make good. And 
it was because of her making good that he had en¬ 
tered upon the road of prosperity, and the far greater 
prosperity that lay ahead of him. And now, she saw 
herself going on—making more and more good—in the 
end bringing him wealth, so that he could marry— 
somebody—somebody with coal-black hair and green 
eyes, maybe—in that flashing instant the black hair 
and green eyes of an imaginary somebody flashed viv¬ 
idly before Polly’s imagination. 

“Isn’t that nice?” she responded. “Then, when¬ 
ever I think I’ve played a scene well, I can say: ‘Maybe 
this means a new hat for Bob’s wife!’ ” 

He did not reply to her hidden train of thought, 
and not for an instant did his matter-of-factness fall 
from him. He took her remark on a business basis and 
replied in like strain. 

“Any scene that you play means more than the price 
of a hat,” he said. “Do you know that ‘Joan’ got over 
forty-six thousand in two weeks at the Rivoli Theater 
in New York? Do you know what the State of Ohio 
will gross?” 

“No,” she retorted deliberately, “And I don’t even 
care.” 

He stared at her in astonishment. Was the girl 
crazy? When he had worked like a slave to launch 
her—now that she was launched, and sailing along on 
a smoother and sunnier ocean than she had ever even 
dreamed of—now that he was bringing her reports 


A STRING OF PEARLS 


197 


such as might turn the head of many other successful 
stars—she responded that “she didn’t care.” 

“Why, what’s the matter?” he burst out. 

“I’m sick of hearing nothing but business all the 
time!” she told him. “That’s all you ever want to talk 
about. I can just hear you proposing to that wife 
of yours—‘Darling, will you set up in the housekeeping 
business with me? I’ll give you a straight fifty per 
cent partnership. Is that a bargain? Fine! Give 
me a sample kiss and we’ll incorporate next June!’ ” 

As she uttered the words she mimicked his energetic 
and businesslike manner so cleverly that he burst into 
laughter at the burlesque on himself. He heard his 
own voice speaking in hers. If there was a shade of 
bitterness behind Polly’s mimicry, he was unaware of 
it—as was she, too; he only laughed heartily at her 
wit. 

“Yes, that’s me, I guess,” he admitted good-tem- 
peredly. “But I’ve got to talk business with you no 
matter how you hate it. On my way up from the sta¬ 
tion I stopped at the bank. I wanted to get something 
from our safe deposit box. Well—in there I found all 
these salary checks.” 

“What of it?” Polly asked in a colorless tone. 

“That’s what I want to know. What are they for 
and why are they in there?” 

“You’re trying to raise money aren’t you? To buy 
stock with?” She knew of his arrangement with the 
other five men—a year before, at the inauguration of 
the company, he had been promised his one-sixth share 
if he could raise the money for it within twelve months. 


198 


POLLY PREFERRED 


This had been as he requested and they had consented. 

“I know you want to pay up and get your stock,” 
she said. 

“For myself ?” he exclaimed. Suddenly he broke out: 
“I can’t say what I’d like to, Polly-” He cut him¬ 

self off. She looked at him frankly. 

“Well, for heaven’s sake, try it!” she commanded 
him, and the little winged god alone knows what might 
have occurred at that moment, when certain longings 
within two young persons’ hearts were getting dan¬ 
gerously near the surface, if the tete-a-tete had not 
been interrupted by the ubiquitous Morris. He had 
exerted all his tact to leave the room and let them have 
it to themselves; but he had certainly given them time 
enough! Besides, the star was needed—no delaying 
the work of the camera, even for the demands of young 
love! 

“Excuse me, Miss Polly,” he blurted out. “But 
they’re waitin’ on you for the poil scene.” 

Polly gave a groan as she hurried away to meet her 
call. “Oh, that terrible pearl scene!” she exclaimed. 

Bob rose and accompanied her to the door. “What’s 
the matter with it ?” he asked. 

“Everything!” she cried despairingly. “I wanted 
this picture to be better than either of the others, and 
it’s going to be dreadful. Oh—I’m glad you’re home!” 
Polly had become so accustomed to turning to Bob for 
the solution of all her problems, whether they concerned 
the set of a picture or the choice of an apartment, 
that she felt helpless without him, and now he had been 
gone over eight weeks and she had been left to struggle 



A STRING OF PEARLS 


199 


with other people’s opinions and to battle alone for 
her high ideals of her art. 

As she went out to the lot, Morris turned to Bob and 
explained to him the situation. 

“She’s had a row with Boswell already over that 
scene,” he said. “I’ve got to get back on the set; I’m 
afraid something’ll go wrong if I’m not there!” he 
added, his chest swelling to an expansion that an ath¬ 
lete might envy as he thought of the dire disaster to 
the picture if he were not on hand. He dashed away, 
arms and legs in a tangle, to give his important as¬ 
sistance. 

As Bob was turning away toward his own office, Joe 
Rutherford entered. He was bent upon purposes of 
his own, and did not at first notice the presence of 
anyone else. Under his arm Joe carried a huge box 
such as could contain only flowers; in a most preoccu¬ 
pied manner he crossed straight toward the door that 
led to the dressing-rooms. 

“Oh-” Bob began, seeing him and halting. 

Rutherford turned. “Oh, hello, Cooley,” he said. 
“I didn’t know you were back.” 

“I just got in this morning,” Bob responded. “Ken¬ 
nedy was on the train with me.” 

“Yes. He’s coming for the stockholders’ meeting.” 

Bob looked at the other with a steady gaze. He 
had always known, from the very first, when Ruther¬ 
ford had insolently entered the borrowed office of Mose¬ 
ley and Webb, that in him lay danger. Bob had felt 
it in the air, had watched Joe’s movements as a cat 
watches at a mousehole. The sly mouse of Joe’s 



200 


POLLY PREFERRED 


treachery might never appear, but nevertheless Bob 
felt it to be always there, ready to slip out if he gave 
it the chance. 

“I know,” he replied now to Joe’s observation. 
“That’s what I hurried back for.” 

Joe eyed him with more than his usual insolence. 
“Oh, you did, did you?” he remarked. And he passed 
on his way toward the dressing-rooms with his box of 
flowers. 

The excited voice of Boswell outside burst upon the 
air, fairly screaming in its nervous violence as he gave 
directions. 

“Now, now Polly, don’t get on your high horse with 
me!” he was crying. “I’m not in the mood for it!” 

And Polly could be heard responding, with a sound 
like an angry sob: 

“I—I’m not—oh, the scene’s no good!” 

“You’re sulking—that’s what you’re doing—sulk¬ 
ing!” Boswell retorted furiously. “Now,” he went on 
in his highest key, “you’ll stop that temperamental 
business or I’ll-” 

And Polly reappeared just outside the door, storm¬ 
ing back at the infuriated director: 

“It’s not temperament at all! It’s because you’re 
impossible!” She was divided between indignation and 
a very human, very feminine desire to burst into sobs. 
If she hadn’t been so angry, she could have sought the 
nearest shoulder to cry it out on. She had endured 
Boswell’s high-handed ways, his tyranny and his tem¬ 
pests, as long as she could; she had fought deter¬ 
minedly for what she believed to be right; but, as must 



A STRING OF PEARLS 


201 


ever happen now and then, star and director had en¬ 
tirely disagreed upon this new picture. What Boswell 
believed to be effective she had called ridiculous; 
whether right or wrong, she had been sincere and had 
stood by her guns; but the director was irascible, and 
he had worn her nerves to the snapping point. 

She burst into the room. “Bob, don’t let him make 
me, will you?” she cried, her hands out in appeal to 
her first friend. 

“Why, Polly, what is it?” Bob demanded, coming 
forward with quick sympathy. He was on the defen¬ 
sive at once; nobody should make Polly do what she 
didn’t want to, not unless it was over his dead body! 

“He’s just idiotic about it!” she almost sobbed. Her 
face was flushed with angry excitement; her eyes were 
shining. 

Boswell followed her into the room, and his excited 
anger was quite equal to hers. 

“Idiotic!” he screamed. “Don’t you dare to call me 
names—I won’t stand for it!” 

The clamor brought Rutherford into the room, and 
he strode up to Boswell. 

“Here, who are you yelling at?” he demanded. 

And Bob, on the other side of the director, declared 
to that irate person, “You ought to be ashamed of 
yourself!” Between the two defenders of Polly’s 
rights, Crawford Boswell saw no chance for the sym¬ 
pathy he desired. The trouble with Crawford was, 
someone had once said, he always felt himself the real 
star, and he expected to lead everybody through the 
gamut of his emotions! He was a brilliant director, 


202 


POLLY PREFERRED 


but he made his mistakes like anyone else; and it was 
more than he could endure to own it. Even after he 
found himself in the wrong, he would stick to his point 
rather than surrender. 

He now turned on his heel with a gesture of utter 
despair. “Pm through!” he shouted. “I resign! 
Where’s my hat?” 

Bob followed him as he started to fling out of the 
door. “Don’t be silly, Boswell!” he expostulated. 

“But I won’t go on—I can’t! Pve got one of my 
wretched headaches !” he wound up lamely, and clutched 
the aching member in apparent agony. 

“I don’t want to make your head ache,” Polly said, 
calming her own tone, “but that scene is simply im¬ 
possible!” 

He couldn’t give up, although she showed signs of 
putting away wrath. He would have that young up¬ 
start understand that he was authority when it came 
to enacting a scene! Who had discovered her, to be 
sure, but he himself, the great Boswell? Where would 
she be today if he had not shown the others that she 
had ability? She might as well understand that she 
didn’t know it all- 

“I’ll have you know that I understand scenes better 
than you!” he declared. “I don’t propose to be told 
my business by you-” 

“If you had any sense at all, you’d see it-” she 

retorted. 

“Why, you—you-” he could not articulate fur¬ 

ther in his rage. 

Bob broke in. “Now, Polly, don’t work yourself 






A STRING OF PEARLS 


203 


up this way,” he said with firm quiet. At the same 
moment Rutherford seized Boswell’s arm and jerked 
him aside. 

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” he said impa¬ 
tiently. Boswell was like a furious child in an un¬ 
disciplined quarrel. “Now, look here. What is this 
scene you’re fighting about?” 

“There it is!” cried Boswell, thrusting the manu¬ 
script into Joe’s hands. His manner implied that he 
had received the deepest insult. 

“You can’t tell anything about it by the continuity,” 
Bob put in. He well knew that there is only one way 
to judge a scene. The form from which a director 
builds is like a skeleton devoid of flesh—you wouldn’t 
recognize the most famous beauty if you were shown 
merely her bony structure. 

“Rehearse it, Boswell,” he said encouragingly, “and 
let’s have a look at it.” Bob was cheerfully trying to 
play peacemaker. 

But Boswell was on his high horse with no intention 
of dismounting. He probably enjoyed it, in some ob¬ 
scure way of enjoyment, as those persons do who cause 
a disturbance. “Certainly I will not rehearse it!” he 
said haughtily. 

Polly saw her opportunity to gain her end. “Oh, 
please, Mr. Boswell,” she urged. “If Mr. Cooley says 
it’s all right, I’ll do it,” she promised. 

“Oh, come on, Bossie,” added Bob, genially. 

Boswell, recollecting his head, again clasped that 
member tenderly. “This would have to happen on the 
day my head ached!” he moaned. 


204 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Bob turned to Morris, who had reappeared by this 
time. “Morris, ask the people on the set to come in 
here,” he said. Morris might have been promoted to an 
assistant directorship, but the old understanding be¬ 
tween him and Mr. Cooley was not lost; he was glad 
enough to take orders from his first benefactor, even 
if he did puff his chest, and occasionally lecture that 
gentleman on his treatment of a girl! 

“Yes, sir,” Morris replied obediently, and departed 
to get the others, while Polly, with a weary sigh, sank 
upon a settee and Joe took a seat beside her. 

Bob drew the director aside. “Remember, Boswell,” 
he said pleasantly, “we tried some of the ‘Joan’ scenes 
this way, and-” 

Morris burst in. 

“The Count and the Countess have just gone over 
to the cafeteria,” he announced tragically. Why should 
Counts and Countesses have to eat like ordinary per¬ 
sons? he wondered. 

“But we want to rehearse the scene,” said Bob. 

Morris was equal to any occasion. “I can stand for 
the Count,” he proposed, “and Mr. Boswell could do 
the Countess.” Such an opportunity was exactly to 
the liking of the versatile youth. 

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” retorted the dignified 
Mr. Boswell. 

“Well, Miss Jimmie’s out there,” said Morris. 

“Get her,” Bob ordered him. 

Morris turned to the door and shouted out into the 
unseen space beyond, “Miss Jimmie!” 

Bob took up his request again. “Just to show what 



A STRING OF PEARLS 


205 


the scene’s about, Boswell. Come along, be a good 
fellow and help us out.” 

Boswell again clasped his head. He was posing, as 
if he were the star himself; his knee-trousered legs 
were crossed in a dancing-master attitude as he stood, 
shaking a weary head and at intervals stroking and 
clutching it. 

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you, did I?” he cried 
peevishly. “But it’s perfectly absurd to rehearse with¬ 
out the people.” 

Jimmie entered, ready for her part as the maid. Bos¬ 
well looked at her, heaved a resigned sigh, and decided 
to grant the request. He wore an air of extreme con¬ 
descension—but he did it. He began preparations. 

“Oh, Mr. Rutherford, will you sit over there, 
please?” He sent Joe off, across the room from Polly, 
to make space for the rehearsal. “Here, Morris,” the 
director continued. 

“Yes, sir?” 

Boswell led Morris—arms, legs and all—into the po¬ 
sition which the Count was supposed to occupy. To 
Jimmie he said, 

“You’re the wife.” 

“I’m what?” inquired Jimmie. 

Boswell sighed at the general stupidity of the world. 
“Oh, come over here,” he peeved. He crossed the room 
and took up his position opposite the group. “Now,” 
he began, “the situation is that the Count Fanaro” 
(pointing to the un-Count-like Morris) “has got 
Meg’s mother out of the house and he’s here alone with 
her. And all of a sudden the Countess comes in-” 

i 



206 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Joe wanted to get this all clearly. “Is the Count in 
love with Meg?” he demanded to know. 

Boswell flung out his hands. “My goodness, he’s 
brought her a rope of pearls worth millions of dol¬ 
lars !” he cried. 

That satisfied Joe. “He’s in love with her, all right,” 
he said. Love could be accurately measured in terms 
of dollars and cents, according to his code. 

“The reason that his wife-” Boswell started to 

explain. “Oh, well,” he broke off, “we’ll do the whole 
scene for you. . . . Get off, you!” he commanded 

Jimmie, who had taken up a position in the picture. 
It wasn’t Jimmie’s turn yet. “Now, Morris-” 

“You mean where he gives her the poils?” The 
“Count” was ready. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, I know it! I know it backwards!” Morris 
snatched off his belt, to represent the string of pearls, 
and concealed it, ready for use, in his pocket. 

“Well, we don’t play it backwards,” tartly rejoined 
Boswell. “If you know so much, go on and do it.” 

This was the opportunity for which Morris longed. 
“Yes, sir!” he cried delightedly, and forthwith pro¬ 
ceeded to enter upon his career as Count. He turned 
an imaginary door-knob, entered an imaginary room in 
which Polly (Meg) was seated, employed upon imag¬ 
inary sewing; he crossed to her, bowing deeply; took 
the belt from his pocket, pretended to unwrap it, as a 
parcel; and, bringing forth the “pearls,” he knelt be¬ 
fore Polly to present them. 

“Other knee!” corrected Boswell. And, as Morris 




A STRING OF PEARLS 


207 


quickly changed knees, the director groaned, “This is 
all so unnecessary!” 

In pantomime the scene progressed. Meg, incredu¬ 
lous, took the “string of pearls,” clasping it as if with 
a thrill of delight. Never had the humble belt of Mor¬ 
ris known such an experience. She put the “pearls” 
to her cheek, she held them above her head to watch 
their gleaming. 

“Now you see the vision of Jim,” Morris prompted 
her; and at once her expression changed, she grew 
sad, and slowly she held out the “pearls” to the 
“Count.” 

“Caption, ‘You won’t take ’em?’ ” he explained. 

Polly refused the pearls with a firm headshake, upon 
which the “Count” grew very angry, and flung them 
violently upon the floor. She rose, started to cross 
the room; the “Count” sprang upon her, threw his 
arms about her, and a violent struggle ensued. 

“I was always wantin’ to suggest in this struggle to 

let her get under the Count’s arm—this way—see-” 

panted Morris. “Then she starts to escape—and the 

Count yanks her back—like that-” he swung her 

around and landed her against his chest with a thump 
—“and just then a knock comes at the door!” 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, go on!” moaned Boswell. 

“That’s the Countess,” said Morris. “Knock, will 
you, Miss Jimmie?” 

Jimmie obeyed. “That’s easy, after watchin’ you,” 
she remarked. “Now what do I do?” 

“I suppose Morris can tell you,” responded Boswell 
with withering sarcasm. 




208 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Sure I can,” the assistant director replied. “You 
come in this door—see her—and stop.” Jimmie obeyed, 
but her manner did not please him. “No—no—I’m 
your husband!” the “Count” protested. “And she’s 
my Cutie. Freeze up!” 

“Oh!” Jimmie, as the Countess, endeavored to look 
angry. 

“Now show her your wedding ring,” instructed Mor¬ 
ris. Jimmie obeyed. 

“You’ll have to imagine the ring,” observed Jimmie. 
“I lent mine to a lady friend to rent a bungalow with,” 
and she thrust out a bare hand. 

Boswell was desperate. He walked the floor with 
his head resting in his hand. Morris’s instructions con¬ 
tinued : 

“Now look at me like, ‘How could you?’ Spoken title: 
‘You dared come to this house, damn you!’ ” The 
“Count” raised his fist above Jimmie; Polly sprang be¬ 
tween “Count” and “Countess” in their altercation, 
seized his upraised arm before it fell, and cried: 

“Stop! Would you strike your own wife?” 

“Now,” continued Morris, instructing Jimmie: 
“when the Count turns away, look at Meg as much as 
to say, ‘Why do you try to help me when you’ve took 
away the man I love ?’ ” 

They strove to follow the instructions. Jimmie 
looked sadly at Polly, who gazed upon the floor, then 
lifted the “pearls” slowly, sorrowfully, and placed them 
about the neck of the “Countess,” the rightful wife; 
while Morris’s belt dangled around Jimmie’s neck, Polly 
gazed with smothered longing at it, but with an air of 


A STRING OF PEARLS 


209 


deep renunciation, while she watched the “Count” and 
“Countess” depart, her hand in his where Polly had 
nobly placed it. 

And as they departed, Polly’s scorn broke loose. She 
turned to Bob. 

“There!” she cried, with a gesture that covered the 
whole melodramatic scene. “What do you think of 
that?” 

And Boswell groaned, 

“My God, what could they think?” 

“No two women in the world would ever act that 
way!” she declared. 

But the worst of the storm had broken and passed 
on, and now the air was cleared. Everybody felt bet¬ 
ter, and they were able to discuss the scene. Stars can¬ 
not always shine in serenity! 


CHAPTER XV 


DISASTER 

Now that calm was partially restored, Bob rose to 
discuss the scene. 

“I know what’s the matter with it,” he said. “Polly, 
you let me talk to Boswell about it.” 

But Rutherford didn’t intend to have young Cooley 
dictate in this high-handed fashion. He was boss, and 
he wanted that clearly understood. 

“I’ll do that myself,” he said to the younger man. 
He turned to Boswell. “If Polly doesn’t like that scene 
you can change it somehow, can’t you?” he asked the 
director, and, although his words took the form of a 
request, they amounted to a command. After all, Joe 
held the purse strings. 

Boswell had already surrendered in fact, but he still 
strove to keep up the appearance of standing on his 
dignity. 

“I suppose I can—sitting up half the night rewrit¬ 
ing !” he groaned. 

The discussion of the scene was dropped, however, 
as a more imperative matter thrust itself before them 
all. Jones now entered, demanding, “What about our 
meeting? It’s four-fifteen!” 

“I’m ready,” Joe responded, and crossed toward the 
210 


DISASTER 


211 


door of his private office. Business was more important 
than art for art’s sake. 

“Hello, Bob!” Jones observed. “Glad to see you 
back.” 

“Thanks.” The reply was civil enough, but Bob had 
no words to waste. He was summoning his concentra¬ 
tion now for what he realized might be something of a 
struggle. 

“Has Kennedy got here?” Joe asked of Jones; and 
Kennedy’s chum replied, “I haven’t seen him.” 

Joe thought it over a second. “Well,” he concluded. 
“We can go ahead without him.” He left the room for 
the meeting of stockholders. Bob followed immediately. 
As he did so, Jones called to him. 

“You’re not going in there, are you?” 

And Bob, turning, gave Jones a glance that he might 
remember; as he said: 

“I’m not? Watch me!” And Bob went straight 
after Joe. This meeting was quite as much his affair 
as it was anybody’s, and he didn’t intend to be left out 
of it. But he began to suspect the intentions of cer¬ 
tain other persons. 

Boswell was fretting. “How long will this meeting 
last?” he asked of Jones. 

“Not over an hour,” the artist flung back as he, too, 
followed Joe to the private office. 

“Then I’ll have time to shoot the orgy scene after¬ 
wards,” reflected Boswell, once more ready to take up 
his work and quite forgetting that he had resigned a 
short time ago. “Oh—Miss—Thing, there—get into 
your costume for the dancing specialty!” he ordered 


212 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Jimmie. He went over to the outer door and called: 

“Morris 1 Morris! Where are you, lazy boy?” 

“I’m here.” Morris appeared. 

“Get all the people on the bazaar set and wait for 
me.” 

“Yes, sir.” Morris departed to call at the dressing- 
rooms. Once more the machinery was working, opera¬ 
tions were proceeding smoothly at the headquarters of 
“Polly Pierpont Inc.,” Boswell congratulated himself. 

Can a suffering director know no peace? The storm 
of the star was quelled for the time, but here came 
one of these others, just to annoy him! Jimmie was 
raising her voice in complaint. 

“I had an appointment at the hair-dresser’s to get a 
shampoo,” she was saying. 

“Yes?” snapped Boswell. “Well, I don’t want to 
hear about it.” 

“But I started this picture a blonde, and a blonde I 
got to stay!” insisted Jimmie. Boswell gazed at her 
in agony. His head! Oh, his head ! Always a woman 
to nag, whenever his head was at its worst! 

“Will you please go away?” he cried. Would he 
never be left in peace? 

Polly interrupted. “Will you need me again to¬ 
day, Mr. Boswell?” she asked. 

He didn’t care whether he needed her again or not; 
she should have her lesson. Clasping his head, he turned 
upon her. 

“You’ve stopped my work in the middle of a scene, 
he stated. “You’ve called me names and brought on 
this headache. That’s quite enough for one afternoon.” 


DISASTER 


213 


He started toward the door. Reaching it, he paused, 
his hand on the knob, and fired his parting shot. 

“I shan’t need you until tomorrow, and I thank God 
for it,” he said fervently, and departed. 

Jimmie watched the last of him, as he disappeared. 
“Oh, my!” she groaned, “ain’t he just too indignant?” 
She seated herself comfortably, stuck her prettily shod 
feet out in front and observed the little toes of her slip¬ 
pers, while she placed her hands on her hips and tossed 
her head. 

“Cheer up!” she cried to Polly. “Whatever Bossie 
does to the scene, the fans’ll eat it alive. An’ why not? 
You can’t expect ’em to have any brains after a few 
years o’ watchin’ pickchers.” 

Polly was staring at the floor gloomily, her whole 
figure sagging with dejection. Her attitude did not 
change at Jimmie’s would-be-comforting words, al¬ 
though she replied. 

“I’m not worrying about the scene now.” She rose 
as she spoke, as if about to leave the room. Jimmie rose 
too, and stopped her, facing the despondent little figure 
squarely. 

“Then what is it?” the loyal Jimmie demanded. 
“You look about as cheery as a bunch o’ flowers tied 
on a doorknob.” 

“Nonsense. I’m all right.” 

Polly made a gesture of shaking herself together, 
striving to hold up her head and show her usual “pep,” 
as she would have defiantly termed it; but her gesture 
and effort didn’t fool Miss Jimmie. She looked at her 
target, and then shot straight at the bull’s-eye. 


214 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Is it Bob that’s botherin’ you?” she demanded. 

Polly flushed, but she flung her head almost indig¬ 
nantly. “Why should I be bothering about Bob?” she 
inquired with elaborate satire. 

Jimmie placed her arms akimbo, cocked her head, 
and observed her friend with a touch of impertinence, 
although underneath it lay the genuine sympathy with 
which Jimmie’s good heart always brimmed over. 

“I had an idea,” she said deliberately, “that you 
might be in love with him.” 

Polly turned up her pretty nose disdainfully. “In 
love!” she cried, “with a man that never talks about 
anything but business—and grosses—and audits— 
whatever they are!” Her scorn was supreme. 

Jimmie sobered, and looked her in the eye. “Bob’s 
just crazy about you,” she said firmly. 

Again Polly cast a disdainful glance upon such an 
absurd theory. “Why, he looks on me as a sister!” she 
cried. With a faint hint of the bitterness that she 
had once shown long ago, on the day of meeting in the 
Automat, she added reflectively, “One man feels safe 
with me, and another one feels like my brother!” Polly 
smiled, but there was a hurt that somehow lingered in 
her tone. The psychology of woman, her hopes and 
fears and longings, is a mystery even to woman her¬ 
self, so complex is it and so deeply hidden below the 
surface. 

“Yes, he does,” Jimmie agreed. “Why, Morris 
says-” 

“I don’t care what Morris says!” Polly fairly 
snapped it. 



DISASTER 


215 


Jimmie pursed her lips and tilted up her chin. “All 
right, then. You don’t have to know.” And she shut 
her mouth tight in token of silence. 

On the instant Polly was teeming with feminine cu¬ 
riosity. “What did he say?” she begged. 

“Oh, you do want to know, then? Even though you 
ain’t one bit interested in Bob?” 

“I’ve got some curiosity.” 

Jimmie laughed affectionately, as if indulging a 
troubled child, and wanting to comfort the child even 
while she laughed. “What’s the use of tryin’ to fool 
me?” she cried, patting Polly’s drooping shoulder. 
“Don’t you mind my knowin’, kid. I was in love 
myself once—only he would forget and call me by his 
wife’s name!” And with a wave of farewell Jimmie 
departed, just as Bob was re-entering from the room 
where the stockholders’ meeting was being held. 

Polly stared at him, for he was like another man. The 
brisk and cheerfully determined one who had greeted 
her but a short time before, and who had gone con¬ 
fidently forth to his conference with the others, had 
vanished. He looked, as Polly told herself, as though 
“something had hit him, and hit him again, and thrown 
him down and pummelled him and then had jumped 
up and down on him, over and over, with both heels, 
and nails in the heels besides.” He was dumb, crushed, 
white. As she looked at him, alarm seized her; she 
could only gasp, “Why Bob, what’s the matter?” 

He turned slowly toward her, but still he could not 
speak. 

“It’s all right, about your stock?” she went on. 


216 


POLLY PREFERRED 


He gulped. At last he got out the words. “Well, 
no—it—it isn’t,” he stumbled. 

Polly gave a little cry of alarm. “Oh, what did 
they say?” she exclaimed. 

Bob answered slowly, in a husky voice. “Ruther¬ 
ford advanced the money for my shares, and he just 
told me my option had expired.” 

“The cheat!” cried Polly. She could say nothing 
more. She couldn’t find words for the things which, in 
that brief instant of time, she was thinking of Joe 
Rutherford. 

“No,” Bob went on slowly. “He’s within his rights—■ 
legally. I know that as well as he does. If a man 
wants to hold out on a legal technicality—he can. The 
time was up eight days ago, as a matter of fact, but 
I thought—I didn’t think of his tripping me up on a 
point like that. It’s a case of the letter—not the 
spirit, you know. I thought the first annual meeting 
would be called a year, without haggling over a mat¬ 
ter of eight days, while I was away on the company’s 
business.” He took out his handkerchief and mopped 
his brow, then he shook himself. 

“I’ll stop talking business now, Polly,” he said. 

But business was the only possible topic now. “No, 
don’t!” she cried, consumed with the tragic matter in 
hand. “I want to hear you!” 

“Business!” he reiterated bitterly. “I don’t know 
enough about business to get me through a kinder¬ 
garten!” It had taken a man like Joe Rutherford,— 
sharp, self-seeking, keen as a terrier to pounce on his 
prey, likewise keen to secure his own safety by keeping 


DISASTER 


217 


ever just within the letter of the law—to give Bob 
Cooley his first stern lesson in the world’s ways. Honest, 
good-tempered Bob, moved by his own generous im¬ 
pulses, was prone to attribute the same impulses to 
everybody else. 

“Don’t, Bob!” Polly murmured, hurt at hearing his 
own self-accusations. 

“No, I won’t!” he declared, ashamed at having almost 
given way before her. “I’d better go out and kick 
myself. I’ve not only played the fool, but here I am, 
coming to you and crying about it!” 

But Polly’s indignation at the affair was rising with 
every moment since the first shock had numbed her. 
“But without you there’d never have been any com¬ 
pany at all!” she protested. 

“Rutherford said I’d got my share by being given a 
good job,” he explained. “And I told him I didn’t 
want his job any longer.” 

At this report a memory washed over Polly in a pain¬ 
ful wave. How it took her back to that day in the 
Automat—the day when Joe Rutherford had cut short 
her ambition and progress, as he now had cut short 
Bob’s; and when, by way of recompense, he had offered 
her what he termed “a good job,” with the air of hand¬ 
ing a dog a bone after the meat has been picked off 
and telling the dog to stop growling, that he ought to 
be highly pleased with the bone. That was more than 
a dog should expect, according to Rutherford’s code. 
And then she recalled, all in this swift wave of memory, 
how she had flung her head—and refused the bone— 
just as Bob Cooley was refusing now. 


218 


POLLY PREFERRED 


44 You acted just like I did the day I met you in the 
Automat,” she said. 44 I know how I felt—how des¬ 
perate I was—and you came along. Well-” con¬ 

cluded Polly very gravely, very determinedly. “It’s 
my turn to ‘come along’ now.” 

Bob shook his head, although he felt grateful. 
“There isn’t anything you can do,” he told her, his 
eyes gloomily upon the floor. 

She drew her lips to a firm line. “I can quit, too,” 
she said. 

Bob turned with a quick movement of protest. “No, 
you can’t!” he said. “Your contract prevents your 
making pictures for anyone else.” 

“I’ll find some way to smash the contract.” 

“There isn’t any way.” 

“Then,” announced Polly with resolve, “I shall stop 
making pictures!” 

He caught and held her eye. “Do you think I’d let 
you do that?” he exclaimed. The possibility of Polly’s 
career being cut off—and all for the sake of avenging 
him—her ambition wrecked—the thought was hideous ! 

Polly retorted. “And do you think I’d go on, know¬ 
ing that Mr. Rutherford has taken away your share?” 
Her indignation knew no bounds by this time. 

“Yes, Polly, you must,” he told her gravely. 

“Well!” she declared, “I won’t do it, whether I ‘must’ 
or not! Do you think I’d let them make another penny 
out of me? After the way they’ve treated you? Not 
much! I won’t, so there!” She put her small foot 
down with an emphasis that declared quite as much as 
a far larger foot might have done. 



DISASTER 


219 


“But, Polly, if you did that, I’m the one you’d 
really be hurting,” he told her. 

“Why?” 

He thought it over a minute—just how could he 
explain it to her? It must be made clear, she must be 
made to realize his position in the matter. There was 
something more to him in all this than dollars and 
cents, than grosses and shares. Beneath all the talk 
of business interests, lay a deeper interest, something 
that dwelt closer to the real Bob Cooley. 

“Don’t you see-” he began—“you must see—that 

you’re my work! You’re the one thing I’ve ever done 
that amounted to anything. And you wouldn’t take 
my one achievement away from me—I know you 
wouldn’t—would you?” 

“But, Bob-” she began. She couldn’t drop her 

indignation, she couldn’t cease to dwell upon his calam¬ 
ity. Somehow these men must be checked in their 
attempt to ruin him—for that, in Polly’s mind, was 
the situation. She saw them combined in one army of 
hostility; she saw them wrecking Bob’s entire life, 
maliciously plotting to do so, casting him on the rocks, 
broken to pieces. The train of ambition by which many 
a man in business drives straight to his own goal, not 
deliberately malicious but simply unheeding of others, 
and running over them by accident rather than mali¬ 
cious intent, was not within Polly’s knowledge. And 
perhaps she was right in attributing a bit more than 
carelessness to Joe’s action; perhaps he had secretly 
“had it in” for Bob from the first. 

“I don’t want you ever to say anything about this 




220 


POLLY PREFERRED 


trouble of mine, Polly,” he went on. He was very se¬ 
rious, but he was entirely master of himself now. He 
had had a downfall, but he was no longer “crying 
about it.” “Please promise ! 1 me that you won’t,” he 
said earnestly. 

She didn’t want to promise; she was ready to burst 
forth, to declare her opinion, to battle for him; but 
his earnestness was so sincere that it carried. She 
couldn’t fail to believe in it, and so she couldn’t do 
other than grant his request. Reluctantly she nodded, 
“yes.” 

“Thank you,” he replied with satisfaction, and 
started toward his own office to make his preparations 
for departure. 

Polly added, “I don’t intend to say anything, but 
I’ll-” 

He turned back. “What?” he demanded. 

“But I—I’ll-” Polly stammered miserably. “Oh, 

I’ll see you again, won’t I?” she cried softly. 

“Oh, sure,” he replied in businesslike bruskness. “As 
soon as I get my papers straight.” And he was gone. 

Polly could not endure alone her pain for Bob. She 
must pour it forth on a sympathetic breast. She 
hastened toward the door of the dressing-rooms. “Oh, 
Jimmie!” she called. 

“Hoo—hoo!” responded Jimmie from the distant 
room where she was “changing,” and an instant later 
she bounded into the room. She was the be-capped 
and be-aproned maid no longer; now she wore a fan¬ 
tastic dancing costume, gorgeous of hue, and designed 
somewhat after the manner of a Turkish dancer’s at- 




DISASTER 


221 


tire, with baggy trousers and sweeping tunic. Jimmie 
was entirely preoccupied with her own splendor. She 
capered about the office, disporting herself in springs 
and kicks, the tunic fluttering like wings. 

44 What do you think of me?” she cried as she darted 
and tripped here and there, all over the room. “Ain’t 
it a shame to waste this on Boswell?” she exclaimed in 
self-admiration—for Miss Jimmie was both nimble and 
shapely. 

Polly had no heart to join in the fun. 44 0h, Jim¬ 
mie!” she moaned, “they’ve taken Bob’s stock away 
from him!” 

Jimmie stopped as if the floor had suddenly fallen 
away. “What?” she demanded in astonishment. 

“And he’s given up his position!” Polly went on. 

Jimmie’s indignation was no less than Polly’s. “It’s 
Rutherford’s doin’!” she cried wrathfully. “He’s so 
jealous of him he can’t see. Gee,” cried the loyal Jim¬ 
mie, whose loyalty to her friends included a fierce ha¬ 
tred of their enemies, “if I ever see that fellow Joe 
drownin’ I’d throw him an anvil!” 

Henry, the factotum, entered at this moment from 
the street door, ushering in the late arrival, Kennedy. 
44 You’ll find them all in there, sir,” Henry said deferen¬ 
tially, and made his exit with a bow, closing the door 
behind him. Kennedy’s quick eye had taken in the 
private office door which Henry indicated; but he did 
not approach it. Instead, he paused before Polly. 

“Why, Miss Pierpont, how do you do!” he said cor¬ 
dially. 

“How do you do, Mr. Kennedy,” Polly replied in a 


222 


POLLY PREFERRED 


colorless voice. Only one thing occupied her mind at 
present; and that was Bob Cooley’s disaster. 

“You’re made up for taking pictures, aren’t you?” 
Kennedy pursued with interest. 

Polly touched her painted cheeks and lips as if to 
remind herself that she was “Meg” of the play, and not 
Polly Brown. “Yes,” she replied dully. 

Kennedy turned to Jimmie with like cordiality. “And 
this is Miss Blake, isn’t it?” 

Jimmie squared herself, as if somehow on the defen¬ 
sive. “It is,” she retorted impertinently. 

“I knew you,” he went on, “by seeing you in ‘Joan of 
Arkansas’.” 

“You must have looked quick,” retorted Jimmie. Her 
part in that cast had, indeed, been played in one fleet¬ 
ing appearance. 

Kennedy squirmed a trifle. Somehow these young 
women didn’t seem to be receiving him with the un¬ 
bounded cordiality that he should have expected would 
warm the relations between actors and stockholders. 
He did not realize that, although Joe was their ac¬ 
knowledged enemy, they were prickling with hostility 
toward the stockholders in a body, for the treatment 
that Bob had received. 

But Kennedy had a very definite purpose, one that 
must be attended to. He dropped his voice, speaking 
to Polly aside. 

“I want to talk to you a moment if I may, Miss 
Pierpont,” he said. “It’s rather important.” 

Jimmie overheard, and turned to go, but Polly 
stopped her. 


DISASTER 


223 


“You needn’t mind, Jimmie,” she said. And Ken¬ 
nedy, against his choice, was obliged to say what he 
had to say in Miss Jimmie’s presence. 

He hesitated a moment, then he went about the mat¬ 
ter directly. 

“I think you should know this, Miss Pierpont, but I 
don’t want you to feel alarmed about it.” Again he 
hesitated. It wasn’t at all agreeable, this matter that 
he felt he must attend to. Somehow, observed Kennedy 
to himself, he always seemed to be the miserable agent 
who had to attend to other people’s difficulties! 

“Mrs. Rutherford’s out here!” he announced at last. 

Polly looked at him with a cool gaze of indifference. 

“What has that to do with me?” she inquired. 

It was getting embarrassing. A darned nasty mess 
for him to be let in for, this trying to smooth things 
over to a wife, to give a word of warning to another 
lady concerned, and to satisfy Joe by helping him out 
of his scrapes! Kennedy wished that Joe would either 
attend to his own difficulties, or take to the straight 
and narrow path and so give a loyal friend a little 
rest! And now Miss Pierpont refused to accept the 
tip at its face value. She might have cast him a look 
of comprehension and gratitude, and no more need have 
been said. But she chose to assume this air of blue¬ 
eyed innocence and to inquire coolly, “What has that 
to do with me?”—as though she didn’t know—and so 
force him to go into disagreeable explanations. 

“Well,” he went on reluctantly, “I suppose you 
know Joe is getting a divorce, and his wife has followed 
him out here because—well-” (Hang it all, growled 



224 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Kennedy to himself, why did he have to go into it like 
this?) “Well,” he wound up with determination, “be¬ 
cause—of you!” 

Jimmie’s eyebrows rose in silent comment upon Fate. 
“This sure is your lucky day, Polly!” she remarked 
with worlds of irony in tone and face. 

Kennedy went on. “I ran straight into her at the 
Alexandria,” he told Polly. “We had a charming lit¬ 
tle scene. She believes the whole trouble between Joe 
and her is because he loves you.” Now that he had 
made up his mind to go ahead and blurt it out, as 
Polly was forcing him to do by her attitude of ignor¬ 
ance, he’d let her have it—and in the fullest, bluntest 
terms. 

“Can you beat that?” cried the astounded and dis¬ 
gusted Jimmie. 

“She’s even got a crazy idea she might name you as 
co-respondent,” Kennedy continued. 

“Oh, my God!” came in rousing tones from Jimmie. 
Rut Polly was listening in dead silence, and what her 
thoughts were no one could have guessed, from the 
sphinx-like expression of her pale little face. A great 
deal was happening in this hour to Polly—inwardly, 
to be sure. But such happenings are the most rack¬ 
ing. Rob’s calamity had come like an overwhelming 
blow to her; and now this situation was shock follow¬ 
ing shock. She felt numb and dumb; but one thing 
instinct taught her, and that was, to keep her head— 
and think clearly. Clear thinking, Polly knew, is the 
only shovel that will dig a path out through drifts of 
difficulty. 


DISASTER 


225 


“If she can make trouble, she’ll do it,” Kennedy’s 
warning continued. “She realizes the whole situation— 
that a scandal would ruin your value as a motion pic¬ 
ture star-” 

But Polly was ready, at last, to speak. She had 
held silence while she listened and collected her 
thoughts; now she saw her course—not fully to the 
end, perhaps, but at least she knew its general direc¬ 
tion, and she was ready to start forward. She said 
to Kennedy, calmly: 

“Will you please tell Mr. Rutherford that I’d like 

to see him? You’ll find him in there-” pointing 

toward the inner office—“at the meeting.” 

“Indeed I will!” Kennedy was very cordial about it; 
he was glad of an excuse to escape from this most 
unpleasant job. “I hope I haven’t upset you,” he 
added solicitously. 

“I was all upset before you came, so a little more 
doesn’t matter, I suppose,” Polly replied, still with 
perfect calm. 

“I’m sorry!” Kennedy cried with hearty sympathy. 
He went toward Joe’s office door; hesitated, somewhat 
awkwardly, as if feeling that it devolved upon him to 
say more and not quite knowing what; and wound up 
by observing: 

“I’ll surely see you again, Miss Blake?” Perhaps 
the gorgeous costume which Jimmie had regretted be¬ 
ing lost upon Boswell, may not have been lost upon 
Mr. Kennedy. 

“I’m here from daylight to dark,” replied Jimmie. 

Kennedy laughed and disappeared, to join the other 




226 


POLLY PREFERRED 


men. And, as the two girls found themselves alone, 
Polly turned to her friend with a spark glowing in 
her gray-blue eyes which so short a time before had been 
full of melancholy and hopelessness. 

44 Jimmie!” she cried. 44 I think I see a way!” 

44 A way to what?” 

44 To get Bob his stock and make them glad to let 
him have it!” 

This was too much for the logical mind of Miss Jim¬ 
mie. Polly might be a very remarkable person in her 
way, but she wasn’t going to turn black to white, or to 
remold the moon into green cheese. As to getting 
Bob’s stock out of the clutches of Joe Rutherford— 
and making the others glad, into the bargain—grab¬ 
bers that all of them were—Jimmie had to admit that 
she couldn’t see it! Polly was certainly indulging in a 
pipe dream! 

“What do you think you’re going to do ?” she 
asked, and she was plainly incredulous. 

44 I can’t tell you now.” Polly was suddenly crisp, 
energetic, almost cheerful, as if her plan was definite 
and promising. “Don’t ask me any more, please, but 
help me through. You go and telephone that reporter, 
Eddie Baker—I know him pretty well and he’ll do 
what I ask him. Say that I want to see him, and ask 
him to dinner at the house. Don’t stop to ask ques¬ 
tions, Jimmie dear, but hurry—please—quick-” 

Jimmie was dubious. It sounded mighty queer to 
her. What was back of it all? But Polly was the 
apple of her eye, and what she wanted went, so far as 
Jimmie could make it go. 



DISASTER 


227 


“I don’t like the sound of all this,” she admitted 
dubiously, “but—-I’ll hope for the best.” 

And she hurried away to telephone as Polly desired 
—at the same moment that Joe, obedient to Polly’s re¬ 
quest also, hurried in from his private office to see her. 


CHAPTER XVI 


POLLY LAYS HER PLOT 

Polly stood in the middle of the room, ready to meet 
Rutherford. She always dreaded a private inter¬ 
view with him; she shrank from him, deep within her 
soul, to this day, just as she had shrunk from him at 
that first meeting at the Automat so long ago. As 
she stood now, watching him approach, it seemed like 
.years—a lifetime. Only twelve months, but what a 
world of happenings in that brief space! How the 
world had turned to magic for her! And what a world 
, of upheaval it was now! Perhaps, at last, she was 
awake; perhaps she had been pinched out of her dream, 
and the dream was over; but she didn’t intend to let 
it come to an end so long as she could fight for it. It 
was for Bob’s sake that she was fighting—but what 
would her own dream be without him? All the joy in 
her luxurious life, her fame, the admiration and gifts 
that were showered upon her, would melt away if Bob 
were left out of everything! 

All these thoughts raced through her mind in those 
seconds that she watched Rutherford coming toward 
her. He was still almost good-looking, except for the 
heavy lines of dissipation, which had grown heavier 
during the past year. One other change was notable; 

228 


POLLY LAYS HER PLOT 


229 


when alone with her, the insolence faded from his man¬ 
ner. He was solicitous, devoted, eager to please; he 
approached her as one begging for favor. 

“Polly,” he said now, with earnestness in his tone, 
“you mustn’t be frightened by what Kennedy has told 
you. There’s nothing to get alarmed about.” 

Polly swallowed hard. She wanted to retort, to 
express her opinion to his face; but she had chosen her 
course, and she must keep to it, no matter how much 
it cost. Oh, she must be the actress now, indeed—such 
an actress as she had never been, even in her most 
triumphant role upon the screen! 

“I’m not alarmed, if you say it’s all right!” she re¬ 
plied to him, and her tone was full of delicious femi¬ 
nine appeal. Joe swelled a trifle, with masculine satis¬ 
faction, at the trust in his powers that the tone 
implied. 

“I’m going straight down to the hotel, and I’ll soon 
stop her talking about you!” he promised boastfully. 

Polly took a seat, as though settling herself for a 
chat. “I’m sure you will!” she told him, still in that 
same tone of admiring trust. “What chance would 
any woman ever have to stand against you?” she mur¬ 
mured, with an almost tender glance in his direction. 

It wasn’t natural, and Joe turned, looking at her 
sharply. Was she trying to kid him? Polly was so 
in the habit of treating him “like he was dirt,” in the 
terminology of Morris, that he thought something was 
the matter when she cooed at him. He expected cool 
retorts, delicate snubs, from Polly, although he had 
worked like a Trojan to buy her favor; could this 


230 


POLLY PREFERRED 


sudden softening be true? Had he at last, with all 
his presents and devotion, won her over? 

“What are you talking about?” he asked, wonder¬ 
ing, and he walked toward her where she sat, still eye¬ 
ing her sharply and not letting himself believe. 

Polly went on in soft earnestness. “I was just think¬ 
ing. You know—there’s something about you—that 
seems rather wonderful!” 

He leaned nearer, hoping with a thumping pulse, but 
doubting his own ears. “Polly!” he exclaimed. “What 
are you up to now, I wonder?” 

“I believe I know what it is,” she went on, as if in 
a reverie. She seemed speaking to herself, thinking 
out loud. Her big eyes were dreamy. 

“Girls are attracted by danger,” she was saying. 
“A thrill! Maybe they get the thrill in a fast motor¬ 
car—or maybe it’s a mad flirtation—or maybe, if 
they’re timid, they just sit at home and read about it 
all!” 

Joe edged nearer. What was this that Polly was 
implying—that he, Joseph Rutherford, was a danger¬ 
ous man? His chest expanded at the thought. To 
be sure, he knew that he was—always prided himself 
on the fact in secret—but that Polly should admit it! 
She, who had so lightly scorned him and gone her 
own way! The very suggestion that he could be dan¬ 
gerous to her was intoxicating to a degree, and Joe 
felt his head swim. 

“Quite a philosopher, aren’t you?” He was cau¬ 
tious ; he wasn’t yet sure but that she was kidding him. 
Polly was equal to any prank. 


POLLY LAYS HER PLOT 


231 


She went on, thinking out loud, apparently in a 
reverie on the subject of men and women, and of him . 
Joe grew more intoxicated as he listened. In an oblique 
sort of fashion, Polly seemed actually making love to 
him, and the thought thrilled. 

“But back of all those things,” she was saying, “is 
the idea of being thrown across a saddle bow and being 
galloped away with. I don’t know what a saddle 
bow is—but it must be awfully thrilling and uncom¬ 
fortable. Oh, I’ve often pictured it. You just sort of 
close your eyes and hear the drumming of the horse’s 
hoofs—and feel the wind rushing past, and an arm 

like steel around your waist-!” As she said it, 

Polly’s eyes grew big and brilliant at the picture she 
had conjured up; apparently she had intoxicated her¬ 
self with the romantic vision. The “drumming of the 
hoofs”; the “rushing wind” ; the “arm like steel” seemed 
vividly before her, and she brought them before her 
listener’s eyes by some magic of her own. Joe was 
thrown off his guard. He had forgotten that she was 
probably kidding him. 

“What a fascinating little devil you are!” he cried 
in a low tone of intensity. 

“And then to be suddenly told you’re perfectly 
safe!” She paused; suddenly she rose, and walked 
across the room, away from him. 

“No wonder I hate you!” she flung out with a back¬ 
ward glance over her shoulder. 

She was tossing his emotions about like a ball on 
the racket of her quick changes. “Do you hate me?” 
he demanded, at sea. 



232 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Oh, yes,” she told him, and adorably added, “es¬ 
pecially when I’m away from you!” 

He was enchanted. With one swift stride he was 
beside her. “Polly, I promise you you’re not safe with 
me now!” he said, and his breath came short as he 
looked deep into her eyes. 

She flung away lightly. “What a dreadful thing to 
say!” she laughed. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t 
believe it!” 

He came closer. “Then,” he said determinedly, “if 
you don’t believe it, why have you always refused to 
come to see my new bungalow?” It had been a fre¬ 
quently repeated invitation—in fact, a standing one; 
and, as standingly, it had been refused. 

But the heavens had opened, apparently, to shower 
their blessings upon Joe. For now, instead of the cus¬ 
tomary cold refusal, came a wonderful smile and a soft 
whisper. 

“Have you any engagement tonight?” asked the 
whisper. 

“Jones was to dine with me, but I’ll put him off,” 
came Rutherford’s prompt reply. No engagement 
could be too important to be broken; an evening with 
the President himself would have been cancelled rather 
than lose a chance of dining alone with Polly. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t let you do that!” she demurred 
softly. 

“You bet I’ll do it!” 

“Besides,” the whisper went on. “Dinner isn’t 
nearly as romantic as—supper!” 

Joe could hardly believe his ears, as the heavens 


POLLY LAYS HER PLOT 


233 


showered so abundantly. “Supper!” he cried in de¬ 
light. “Out on the terrace—in the moonlight-” 

She feigned hesitation, to pique the appetite for 
romance. “I must be mad even to think of it!” she 
exclaimed. 

“But you are thinking of it!” He wasn’t going to 
let that gift of the gods slip through his fingers if he 
could help it! 

She hesitated, half consenting, half doubting. “I 
won’t promise,” she murmured, “but if you’re home— 
at about eleven-” 

It was heavenly joy, it was maddening torture. 
Eager for assurance, Joe was crying, “Polly, you’ll 
come?” when the planning was interrupted by the en¬ 
trance of Bob from his office. He stopped a moment, 
looking sharply at Rutherford; Polly turned and ob¬ 
served the changing expression of the two men. 

Bob broke the silence, saying stiffly, “I’ve got all 
my papers in shape, and I’ve explained them to Miss 
Cowles.” The secretary would put everything in apple- 
pie order, he knew. 

Joe gave him what he looked upon as “another 
chance.” “Sure you won’t change your mind about 
giving up your position?” he inquired; and Bob re¬ 
plied quietly, 

“Quite sure.” 

“Sorry. We’ll miss you.” It was the correct busi¬ 
ness form, Rutherford assured himself. This young 
chap had made a fool of himself, had thrown away a 
good thing because he was sore at not being able to 
grab more than his share, according to Joe’s manner 




234 


POLLY PREFERRED 


of reasoning; a polite show of regret was really too 
good for him, but let him have it. He glanced at Polly, 
throwing a world of understanding into the glance; 
then departed. Joe was pretty well satisfied with the 
way things were coming, all around. 

Alone with Bob, Polly turned quickly to him. She 
caught back a sob that trembled on the edge of her 
words; she fought it back with all her might. “I hate 
to have you go!” she cried. 

“I hate it, too,” he responded. “I don’t like to 
leave you here with Rutherford hanging around, for 
one thing.” 

“I can take care of myself!” she told him bravely. 
“What’s the other thing?” 

He hesitated, his eyes fell to the floor. “Something 
I can’t talk about,” he replied at last. 

But Polly—plucky little Polly—had made up her 
mind. She knew at last all that Bob “couldn’t talk 
about.” For a time he may have succeeded in hiding 
it from her as well as from himself; but she had 
guessed his secret, had made sure of it, indeed. And 
on the impulse of the moment she took matters into 
her own hands. Now she held all the advantage, in 
terms of this world’s measures; hers was the fortune, 
the future; he was once more alone, out of work, buf¬ 
feted by Fate. And Polly, giving way to all that 
throbbed within her heart, cried out: 

“Then I may as well tell you. I love you, Bob. And 
I thought, before you go away, Pd like you to know 
it!” 

“Why, Polly!” was all he could say in his astonish- 


POLLY LAYS HER PLOT 


235 


ment. The heavens were so suddenly in this opening 
and showering of blessings that he was even more 
astounded than Rutherford had been a few minutes 
before—too much astounded, in fact, to know whether 
he was happy or not. 

“Why, Polly!” he said again, gazing at her as he 
stood stiffly before her. 

She rushed on. Now that it was out, she wasn’t 
scared. She wanted to hurry on, to pour it all out to 
him. Maybe this was the way a man felt when he told 
a girl—was it?—she wondered vaguely. 

“I must have loved you that first day in the Auto¬ 
mat,” she told him. “I thought everything you said 
was just wild, but I went right along doing it. I 
wouldn’t have, unless I loved you, would I? And then 
ever since, you’ve been so full of business, and I’m 
tied to that old contract—I’m nothing but so many 
shares of stock—but I don’t know what’s going to 
happen, Bob.” The mad, courageous impulse that had 
started her upon this confession, that had carried her 
thus far upon its torrent, began to give way, and she 
felt herself being left high and dry. 

“Oh, maybe you won’t ever want to see me again!” 
she cried miserably. But the full significance of this 
was still her secret. 

“Not want to see you again!” he exclaimed. He was 
dumbfounded by all that was happening, and he 
couldn’t find any words but stupid, commonplace ones. 
“Not want to see you again?” he repeated. “Why?” 

“Don’t ask me—just kiss me!” she said. She was 
almost sobbing it. “For one minute I don’t want to 


236 


POLLY PREFERRED 


be an actress or an asset—I just want to be myself!” 

And, if his words failed, his arms didn’t. And the 
rest of what Polly had to say was whispered brokenly 
into his tweed coat as he held her, throbbing, against 
his breast. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A TABLE FOR TWO 

Hollywood had always held enticements for Joe 
Rutherford, with its lavish living and gayety, its 
abundance of beauties, both natural and feminine; and 
he had at last established himself there for an indefi¬ 
nite stay. He had taken a luxurious bungalow where 
he could enjoy all the comforts of home without what 
he considered its discomforts; housekeeping without 
a wife was Joe’s idea of what home comfort ought to 
be. He had selected the most charming house that he 
could find; and here, with a skilled Japanese butler 
named Kito to serve his every want, he had settled 
down to enjoy the nearest to a state of bliss that he 
could achieve. 

One thing, and a very important thing, was lacking 
in this paradise, however; Polly never graced it by 
her presence. He had been settled only a week; but 
already good fellows of his own sex, beauties of the 
other, were competing for his invitations, for he en¬ 
tertained lavishly. But Polly always managed by 
some clever evasion to dodge them. He began to find 
that his paradise felt like Hamlet with Hamlet left 
out. 

But at last-! On the night following his inter¬ 

view with Polly, subsequent to Mrs. Rutherford’s ar- 
237 



238 


POLLY PREFERRED 


rival in town, the aspect of life had changed entirely for 
Joe. His skies were now painted a brilliant rose-color. 
For Polly had almost promised to have supper with 
him; and the “almost” he believed to be as good as a 
“yes.” Although he still trembled a bit with appre¬ 
hension, lest the star should think better of it, he 
nevertheless went ahead with preparations for the 
blissful event. Kito was instructed to prepare the most 
delicious supper in his repertoire, and Kito’s best 
would be a supreme work of art. 

Jones dined with him that evening according to ar¬ 
rangement, and, after the smoke was well over, the 
host began to fret a bit, wishing that his guest would 
go. Eleven o’clock Polly had said—but he wanted to 
be ready, in case she should happen to arrive early. 

In the loggia of the bungalow Kito trotted back 
and forth, laying an exquisitely appointed table for 
two. The setting for the little drama about to be 
enacted was beautiful as only a California setting can 
be. Three arches at the rear of the loggia opened 
upon the garden which could be seen through a lat¬ 
tice-work covered with vines on either side, the middle 
arch being left open as a doorway. Moonlight flooded 
the garden; its high stucco wall topped with red Span¬ 
ish tile, its waving palm branches, its flower-laden vines 
could be seen distinctly. Within, the picture was as 
luxuriously lovely as without. The spot was charm¬ 
ingly furnished for both comfort and beauty; oriental 
rugs were scattered over the floor, rich draperies hung 
about, deeply delicious chairs and a chaise longue in¬ 
vited. A victrola stood ready to lure with its music. 


A TABLE FOR TWO 


239 


Kito, alone, stood off to observe his work. Yes, the 
table was perfect. Glass, china, silver, flowers, every 
appointment to the most exacting taste. He had just 
completed his task when the host and his guest were 
heard coming toward the loggia from an inner room. 

“I’ve got some chairs in the studio that will be fine 
for this,” Jones was saying. He considered the bun¬ 
galow one of his triumphs; he had spent much study 
in furnishing it artistically. 

“All right. Send them up tomorrow,” Joe 
responded. 

“I’d have had them today only Boswell kept me so 
long on the orgy scene.—How does the loggia look?” 
he asked with interest as they entered. “Oh, it’s charm¬ 
ing, isn’t it?” He stood glancing about observantly. 

“Yes, fine; I’m much obliged for the help you gave me.” 

Jones approached a floor-lamp that stood beside the 
chaise longue , and studied it. “Do I like that lamp, or 
don’t I?” He shook his head. “I’m not quite sure.” 

Kito slipped away, with a gesture that told Joe the 
supper was ready. Joe fretted more openly. He looked 
at his watch. “Oh, the lamp’s all right,” he said, in 
a hurry to have done with the discussion. Here he 
was, arrayed in his white trousers and dinner-jacket— 
very fetching, Joe felt; and now he wanted to be left 
alone for his final touches of preparation. 

At that moment Jones, turning, caught sight of 
the little table. 

“Oh! I see you’re going to have supper.” 

“Yes. Sorry I can’t ask you to stay.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” Jones amiably assured him. 


240 


POLLY PREFERRED 


The artist seated himself comfortably, near the spread 
table. “Ah, now I begin to understand why you were 
in such a hurry to get this room done this afternoon !” 
he cried, smiling. With interest he observed Kito who 
returned to arrange a chafing-dish. 

“Yes, it was quick work,” Joe replied. He was walk¬ 
ing the floor in his nervous impatience. 

Jones laughed. “Must have been doing some quick 
work yourself. You’ve only been out here a week. 
Well, I hope the fair unknown will appreciate the 
romantic setting!” 

“Kito!” Joe said. 

“Yes, sir!” 

“Are you all finished?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then beat it—run along—be here at eight to¬ 
morrow.” 

“Yes, sir.” The Japanese trotted off obediently. 
Surely these remarks ought to stir Jones to go. 

Joe inspected the supper table. “Hope it’s all 
right,” he muttered. “I hadn’t time to get a regular 
cook today.” 

Jones rose. Ah, at last-! But instead of bid¬ 

ding his host farewell, he took up a new topic. Look¬ 
ing around the room, he inquired: 

“I say, why wouldn’t this be a good setting for the 
assignation scene in ‘Meg’?” 

Joe read a hidden meaning into the words. “You’re 
being funny, aren’t you?” he snapped. 

“Why, no, I thought-” 

“I wish you people out here wouldn’t talk shop so 




A TABLE FOR TWO 


241 


much!” the host fairly snarled. “I object to being 
treated as if I were a character in some damned mo¬ 
tion picture!” 

“Sorry, old man,” Jones apologized affably. “Now, 
let’s see what we can do about that front hall.” 

Joe bit back another “damn.” “Can’t you drop in 
tomorrow on your way to the lot? I’m not going to 
sit in the front hall tonight, you know.” 

Kito, hat in hand, crossed the loggia on his way 
home for the night. “Yes—why, yes, of course,” 
Jones murmured. Joe felt a rising of his spirits at 
what now appeared like departure, when the door bell 
rang sharply. 

“Hello! There’s the bell!” he cried. 

“Oh! Then I must be going!” Guessing that the 
fair one had arrived, the artist started toward the 
door that led to the front entrance of the bungalow. 
But Joe seized his arm, led him to the garden arch, 
and pointed. 

“Yes, but not that way,” Joe said. “This ! Look— 
just up the drive—you don’t mind, do you?” He 
didn’t intend that the fair one, coming, should he en¬ 
countered by Jones, going; and the artist, with a 
knowing and friendly glance, fell in. 

“Of course not, but can I get through the gate?” 

“Sure you can. It’s got a spring catch on the in¬ 
side. Goodnight. Sorry to rush you off like this!” 
Joe was in a nervous flurry by this time. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” Jones sang back from the 
garden, where he was vanishing up the drive. “I un¬ 
derstand !” And Joe, his heart now thumping against 


242 


POLLY PREFERRED 


his dinner-jacket in anticipation, turned back to rush 
to the door and welcome his supper guest. The door 
was being opened—he sprang toward it—to meet Bos¬ 
well. 

“Oh, hello—here you are!” cried the director cheer¬ 
fully. 

Joe’s face turned apoplectic with wrath and dis¬ 
appointment. “How the devil did you get in?” he 
yelped. 

“Your butler let me in, of course. He was just 
leaving.” Boswell entered blandly, and proceeded to 
gaze around the room, observing it with interest. “So 
this is what Jones was doing all day!” 

Joe was frantic now. This fellow must be gotten 
rid of, at once- 

“Look here, Boswell, I’m afraid-” he began. 

Boswell was seating himself with an air of leisurely 
comfort. “I’ve been re-writing that scene,” he re¬ 
marked. “You know, the one Polly didn’t like. I’ve 
brought it over to read to you.” He opened a roll of 
manuscript. 

“I don’t want to hear it!” roared Rutherford. 

“But I want your opinion,” the other urged. “I 
want you to tell me if the old scene-” 

Joe could stand it no longer. He seized the direc¬ 
tor, pulling him up from his chair, and placed him 
upon his feet. 

“The old scene was rotten!” Joe cried. 

Boswell groaned at the fickleness of human opinion. 
“My God, didn’t you say you thought it was all 
right?” 





A TABLE FOR TWO 


243 


“I’ve changed my mind. I’m sure whatever you’ve 
got is better than that.” Anything, Joe told himself, 
to get rid of the fellow; as he spoke, he tried to lead 
Boswell to the door. “I’ll be down at the studio in 

the morning, and if you want my advice-” he was 

promising. 

But Boswell began, as usual, to mount the high 
horse of his dignity. What did Rutherford mean by 
hustling him toward the door in this manner? Bos¬ 
well jerked his arm away from the clutch. 

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” he demanded. 

Joe saw best to assume a conciliatory tone. It 
wouldn’t do to have Boswell in a temper at this stage 
of the gamel “I’m rather busy,” he explained. “I’m 
expecting some people at any moment-” 

As he said it, Boswell’s glance for the first time took 
in the little table at one side of the room, with its 
places laid for two. “People!” he exclaimed. He 
turned to the table, and fell to observing its exquisite 
details. But he was willing to take the matter as a 
good fellow should. “You are a devil, aren’t you?” 
he observed affably. 

Joe once more seized his arm, and led him toward 
the door. “I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stay and have 
a drink,” he observed with an attempt to show the 
spirit of hospitality, at least. What would get the 
man out of the house? he wondered feverishly. 

Boswell lingered. “The girl isn’t anybody I know, 
is it?” he inquired with interest. 

“No, of course not.” 

“That’s good,” responded the director with a vir- 




244 


POLLY PREFERRED 


tuous air. He might have been the champion knight 
of all endangered females, his manner said. But still 
he lingered. He turned, and glanced once more over 
the charming room, dimly lighted by its one lamp and 
the moonlight that filtered through the vines. 

“You know, this loggia would make quite a good 
setting!” Boswell observed critically. 

“Yes, I know!” sputtered Rutherford, enraged. “For 
the assignation scene in ‘Meg, 5 wouldn’t it? Sure you 
don’t want me to play the Count?” If he could have 
wrung a neck or two it would have given him some re¬ 
lief! 

And Boswell replied, “You’re a good type for it!” 
But he had no opportunity to enlarge upon Joe’s suit¬ 
ability to the part of the sinful Count, for Joe seized 
upon him now with a force that could not be stayed, 
and Boswell found himself forcibly put out at the street 
door. Joe heard the spring latch snap behind him; 
then, with a long sigh of relief, he turned back to en¬ 
ter the loggia. 

It was during those few instants of time, while Joe 
was outside, forcing an abrupt farewell upon Boswell 
in the vestibule, that a slender figure stole into the 
loggia through the garden arch. So slender was the 
figure, so filmy the draperies in the moonlight, that 
she might have been some spirit of the moonlight it¬ 
self. The figure paused a moment in the arch, where 
the vine’s shadows flickered over her draperies; as the 
outside door was heard to slam behind Boswell, this 
filmy creature slipped into the loggia and concealed 
herself in a corner. 


A TABLE FOR TWO 


245 


Joe now re-entered, with an air of satisfaction al¬ 
though somewhat ruffled by his efforts. He approached 
the supper table, gazed upon its perfection of detail. 
His satisfaction increased. Yes, it was indeed per¬ 
fect ; money and art could do no more. If that supper 
wouldn’t please an exacting star, Joe Rutherford 
would like to know what would? As he gazed upon the 
chafing dish, he suddenly discovered his own image in 
its polished nickel surface. 

He held it off and looked at himself in it; then, 
with mounting pleasure, he turned to a mirror on the 
wall. Yes, he was really a good-looker, Joe assured 
himself—getting on a bit, to be sure, but the women 
didn’t seem to mind that these days. It only made 
a man the more dangerous, he had heard one of ’em 
say. He didn’t like the knot of his tie, though—hang 

it, why couldn’t he yank the thing into shape-? 

Divided between anxiety over his appearance, and 
pleasure in it, Joe primped before the mirror on the 
wall- 

A voice startled him—a laughing voice, half mock¬ 
ing, half caressing- 

“You look all right—really!” cried the voice. 

And Joe spun about to discover Polly reclining con¬ 
tentedly upon the chaise longue . 





CHAPTER XVIII 


MOONLIGHT 

While Rutherford was studying his appearance in 
the glass, Polly had slipped from her corner to the 
chaise longue , and had made herself at home without 
his guessing that she was there at all. She had 
loosened the fluttering evening cape that she wore, had 
thrown it off and revealed an evening gown as filmy 
and lovely as the robe of a fairy queen. And next, she 
had curled herself up comfortably, and in amusement 
watched Joe at his primping. 

He was so startled when she spoke that he lost his 
breath for the moment; then giving a joyful cry of 
“Polly,” dashed across the room to her. “How on 

earth-” he began, and she supplied the rest of his 

broken question. 

“I found the gate to the driveway open,” she ex¬ 
plained. It was thus, that she had entered, had stolen 
up the driveway, through the garden, and in at the 
arch between the vines. 

“Is it shut now?” he asked, anxiously. He didn’t 
intend to be disturbed further! 

“Yes,” she told him. 

“Shut tight?” 

“Yes.” 

Joe sighed his relief and happiness at her presence. 

246 



MOONLIGHT 


247 


He took a chair near to the chaise longue where she 
reclined. 

6 You know, I wasn’t at all sure you’d come,” he told 
her. 

“I wasn’t at all sure myself. What a shame it would 
have been if I hadn’t! You’ve taken so much trouble!” 
Her glance strayed about over the terrace, the table 
with its flawless appointments, the beauty of the whole 
little scene. She gave him an appreciative smile. 

“And the moonlight!” Joe reminded her. He was so 
completely happy at last that he couldn’t have imag¬ 
ined even one fly in the ointment. Here, in the moon¬ 
lighted loggia with Polly, Joe had achieved heaven at 
last. One of his friends had once observed that Joe’s 
conception of a blissful future life would be that of 
the Indian—a Happy Hunting Ground. 

“Did you do the moonlight, too?” Polly inquired. 
“Really, Mr. Boswell would be dreadfully jealous of 
the lighting!” She was sparkling with airy mischief, 
her eyes were full of laughter, her lips full of saucy 
curls; as she leaned back luxuriously in the chaise 
longue , she was the picture of alluring and elusive 
charm. Joe’s rapture mounted with every instant that 
he looked at her. He rose, and bent above her where 
she reclined. 

“I thought it was a beautiful setting,” he said, “but 
now I see you y it doesn’t seem half beautiful enough!” 
As he spoke he bent nearer, his arms moved impulsively 
toward her- 

With what appeared to be an unconscious move¬ 
ment she avoided the arms, bending to one side, but 



248 


POLLY PREFERRED 


seemingly lost in her own reverie. She was murmuring 
some lines of poetry that the scene had called up: 

“Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the 
meadows—silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows 
of Heaven, blossom the lovely stars—the forget-me- 
nots of the angels.” Her low voice drifted out as if 
upon a pallid sea of dreams. He watched her; her 
loveliness, her musical voice, her soft reverie set his 
pulse to throbbing. 

“That’s awfully pretty!” he muttered in honest and 
awkward appreciation. 

On the instant her mood flashed mischief, as again 
he bent close to her face. Again she avoided him by 
a careless turn. Joe was just “getting sentimental,” 
when she gave one of her quick little laughs and her 
mood sped away from him like a soft bird that you’ve 
almost caught. 

“Yes, isn’t it pretty?” she teased. “Rather good 
stuff for subtitles, eh?” 

Just as he thought he had captured her softer 
mood, as it had seemed to be his to grasp! He drew 
back, rebuffed. Well—she’d melt, give her time. They 
all do, was Joe’s theory of the sex. Better play the 
host after his best manner. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked with a hospitable glance 
toward the cozy supper table. 

“No,” Polly replied with a bored air. Discourag¬ 
ing! He had counted on the little supper to loosen 
things up, to warm her to friendliness. What the 
devil—but she at once reassured him by remarking: 

“But I’d love some champagne!” 


MOONLIGHT 


249 


Ah! Here was his opportunity. Joe knew where 
such things were to be had, and as long as money 
flowed as freely as drinks in the prohibition country, 
his friends were not going to want for the best. “All 
right!” he cried cordially, and crossed to the supper 
table in the loggia’s far corner, where the champagne 
awaited their pleasure. His spirits were rising again 
at being able to grant a desire of hers, when once more 
she dampened them. 

“They always have champagne in these scenes,” she 
observed with her delicate cynicism. “I remember in 
‘Ashes of Desire,’ the heroine found her little sister sit¬ 
ting in the rooms of the Wall street man, drinking 
champagne!” 

What a little devil she was, to be sure! Always 
ready to ridicule his deepest emotions, Joe felt. Never 
had he shown her any tenderness but she had been 
able—and willing—to make it look absurd! Just as he 
thought she was yielding to his sincerity, off she would 
always go, kidding him, flashing the light of her clever 
satire upon his most ardent moods. He turned to her 
now, desperately. 

“Polly,” he cried, “I want to ask you a favor. 
Please don’t talk about the pictures tonight!” 

“But it was so good!” Polly exclaimed, feigning the 
greatest earnestness. Apparently she was consumed 
with interest in the picture. “ ‘Ashes of Desire’—it 
was really wonderful. Didn’t you see it?” 

He assumed the air of patient misery. Would she 
never drop this shop talk and be his Polly, instead of 
the professional Miss Pierpont. 


250 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“No, I didn’t see it,” he answered wearily, filling 
a glass for her from the precious bottle. You might 
think she considered him a butler and no more! Well, 
he would serve faithfully. 

Polly continued her pleasant reminiscence of the 
picture. “The man had sent his valet out. They were 
all alone. . . . Oh, by the way,” she broke in upon 
her own train of thought. “Did you send your man 
out ?” 

“Yes.” Joe was coming back with her filled glass. 

“And the ’phone,” Polly went on. “Did you plug 
that with a wad of paper so that it can’t ring?” 

“No.” Joe showed a shade of irritation. 

“But the man in ‘Ashes of Desire’ did!” She reached 
for the glass as he stood beside her. “Thank you,” 
she said, and took it from him. Their hands touched. 

“Why, your hand is trembling!” Joe cried. What 
could this mean—this self-possessed young person, 
who was playing with him as a cat plays with a 
mouse—letting him get just on the verge—and then 
snatching, teasing, tormenting him! Her hand— 
trembling like a leaf—queer thing, thought Joe. 

Polly withdrew the hand, glass and all, to her other 
side. “Trembling!” she cried. “Rather silly for an 
adventuress like me!” 

“I won’t have you call yourself an adventuress!” 

He leaned impulsively toward her, over the chaise 
longue . She was exquisite, maddening, and that 
tremble surely showed that she did have deep feeling, 
even if she strove to conceal it behind all this pretty 
mockery. His lips had almost- 



MOONLIGHT 


251 


He felt something hard, instead of a pair of rosy 
lips. On the instant Polly had tilted her champagne 
glass toward him, had pressed it against his lips, so 
that he was forced to take a sip—of nothing more 
intoxicating than mere champagne. 

“No, not an adventuress,” Polly said. “Just a 
woman of the world with courage enough to be un¬ 
conventional.” The disappointed Joe was choking 
down a gulp of champagne—forcible feeding, he 
thought. 

“Yes, that’s better,” he replied with an effort to 
appear pleased. Well, it was something, to be offered 
a sip from Polly’s glass! And now, once more, she 
lifted him to the seventh heaven of bliss with her 
words. 

“You know,” she confessed deliciously, “my heart’s 
been beating so loud it’s given me a headache listening 
to it!” 

That was wonderful! Her heart—beating like all 
that—what a thought! Could he do that to the heart 
he most coveted? Yes, after all, he certainly was a 
devil with women, as they said. Joe’s self-satisfaction 
swelled visibly. 

“Oh, I’m sorry-” he murmured. But he wasn’t 

sorry. He was radiant with delight. 

“Perhaps,” suggested Polly, “if I took the pins out 

of my hair-” She hesitated. Poor little thing, 

shame for her to have such a headache! 

He set down the glass and gave his full attention 
to her. “Oh, do!” he cried. “I’d love to see you with 
your hair down.” That demure auburn coil that Polly 




252 


POLLY PREFERRED 


always wore pinned so closely just above the nape 
of her neck was entrancing as it was—but the thought 
of those same auburn tresses floating over white 
shoulders-! 

She was pulling out the few pins that held its 
simple knot, and now the long waving locks suddenly 
tumbled, a warm reddish brown, against her neck, and 
down, far down over her arms and against the cushions. 
There was a mass of the lovely waving hair; silky and 
gleaming under the lamplight, dusky in the shadows, 
ruddy where the rays fell. He had thought Polly 
beautiful before; but now—! Joe was glad he didn’t 
have to find words to describe her. Instead, all he had 
to do was to stand still and gaze. 

“And so few of us can let it down nowadays,” Polly 
observed as she gave a toss of relief, shaking out the 
long locks as a Venus arising from the bath might 
shake hers, or some wood nymph emerging from a 
tree-curtained pool. “It must be awfully hard,” she 
went on meditatively, “to look properly compromised 
with bobbed hair!” 

The little scamp! Always turning the most serious, 
the most tender, the most sentimental moments to a 
jest! Again he drew close beside her, put his hands 
on his sides and stood looking earnestly down at her. 

“Do you want to look compromised?” he asked. 

She corrected herself quickly. “ ‘Feel compromis¬ 
ing’, I should have said. There’s no fun in being 
wicked unless you can feel wicked!” 

Joe continued to gaze down on her where he stood, 
close; he watched her sigh her relief at the loosened 



MOONLIGHT 


253 


hair, watched her fling it back over the cushions, 
watched her lips curl as she talked and smiled, watched 
the color that seemed to come and go under her 
delicate skin. Thin-skinned little thing—yes, Polly 
was that, he observed to himself. And yet she could 
handle a man’s feelings as if they were base-balls and 
she the pitcher. 

“You look simply wonderful!” he breathed after 
long study. He bent close—once more his lips al¬ 
most- | 

“Oh, how was your interview with Mrs. Ruther¬ 
ford?” she suddenly asked, and with a snort Joe 
drew back. Something like receiving a slap in the 
face, to have that subject brought up! 

“Why talk about unpleasant topics?” he demanded. 
“Everything is so charming!” 

Polly rose and stood in the center of the loggia, 
gazing about at all the beauty that surrounded her— 
the perfect accomplishment of both nature and art. 
But the most beautiful part of all the picture, Joe 
thought, was the part she couldn’t see—without a 
mirror. She was more than ever like a spirit of the 
moonlight now, in her filmy white draperies, with the 
long billows of hair tumbling down her back. 

“You’re right,” she said. “We’ve stepped into a 
world of magic moonlight where divorces and angry 
wives don’t exist!” 

She was entrancing in this mood. At last, thought 
Joe, she had given way completely—had surrendered 
to the magic of the night’s beauty, to the thrilling 
joy of their being alone together. He drew near her— 



254 


POLLY PREFERRED 


She gave a little twirl that brought her just be¬ 
yond his reach, at the very moment that his arms- 

“Oh, I wonder if I could have a cigarette?” Polly 
asked sweetly. 

“Can you!” Let her ask for a slice of the moon’s 
green cheese, and Joe would promptly sharpen the 
knife to carve it. He hastened to get the cigarette 
box. 

“That’s the first rule for an actress!” she remarked 
with the same old maddening, delicate satire. It was 
so light a satire that it brushed like a moth’s wing; 
but there seemed no escaping it. 

She took the cigarette which he lighted for her 
with the obsequiousness of a willing slave; she started 
toward a chair, as if about to sit down to enjoy it in 
quiet; but paused, lost in thought, and kneeled upon 
the chair, leaning against its back, as if a trifle un¬ 
certain of her next move. However, she continued her 
reflections out loud: 

“Always make sure of your props before you start 
to play your scene!” she observed thoughtfully. 

Had she a hidden meaning? Joe came to her where 
she leaned in a charming pose, and sought to meet 
her eye, to search in it for her true feeling. 

“You know, I still can’t quite make you out,” he 
said, studying her face as if it had been a difficult 
problem in mathematics. “I don’t understand why you 
suddenly decided to come here.” She had him guess¬ 
ing, to the full; one minute she raised him to the 
highest heaven of hope, the next she dashed him down 
into the abyss with her teasing mockery. And now, 



MOONLIGHT 


255 


at his words, she looked at him more mockingly than 
before; she seemed to be laughing at him, she seemed 
to be laughing with him—which was it? She was like 
some fascinating, tormenting pixie that had fluttered 
in at a window and was playing havoc—and the more 
he looked into her eyes—where she had held him off 
with the chair-back between them—the less he could 
understand her. 

“Perhaps,” she teased, “you’re more fascinating 
than you think you are!” 

“As long as you like me-” he began in desper¬ 

ate earnestness. 

“You haven’t an idea how much!” 

Really, she seemed dead in earnest herself as she 
said it! Bliss! He couldn’t manage to get past that 
wall of the chair-back that she had contrived to place 
between them, as she kneeled on the seat, but her 
words—! They were music in Joe’s ears, all the 
soft incidental music of the tenderest love scene in any 
play. He seated himself upon the lounge. 

“You’re the most surprising kid!” he cried in de¬ 
light. She might change her moods as quickly as the 
lightning artist changes his clothes, but so long as 
she wound up in this suit of tenderness, he didn’t care 
how she had played with him previously. 

Polly now seated herself in the chair, toying with 
her cigarette. She didn’t seem to be smoking it at all, 
he noticed, any more than she had drunk her cham¬ 
pagne—after asking for both of them. Funny things, 
girls were—this one especially. 

“I’ve got lots more surprises for you yet!” she ran 



256 


POLLY PREFERRED 


on gayly. “Oh, but then, I don’t suppose anything 
surprises you any more. I mean, after the suppers 
you must have had with all those other ladies.” 

He wasn’t going to stand for that —having her 
suppose that he was nothing but a chaser, and that he 
counted her on the list with all the rest. A lot of 
pills and nothing more, they were, in comparison with 
Polly. He recalled them with a passing thought that 
covered the lot of them—and they were gone. He must 
convince her that she was the only one that counted, 
that had ever counted- 

He strode to her where she sat, clasped her white 
arms, drew her up from the chair, drew her toward 
him- 

“All those others!” he cried. “Polly, you’ve driven 
every woman I ever knew out of my mind!” Joe was 
entirely honest—at that moment, at least. 

With one of her swift, graceful movements she 
eluded him. But her voice was sweeter than music as 
she said: 

“Would you do something for me, Joe?” 

Would he do something for her! It was with genu¬ 
ine fervor that he answered emphatically: 

“When you talk to me like that I’d do anything!” 

But he hadn’t the faintest idea that her request 
would be so slight a favor—and so amusing. Stoop¬ 
ing, Polly took from her slender foot a little white 
satin slipper and handed it to him with the gesture 
of a princess making royal request. 

“Put some champagne in that and drink to my 
health!” 




MOONLIGHT 


257 


What an absurd childish whim! he thought. And 
like Polly, too. She was as full of pranks and caprices 
as a little girl—no more than ten years old, she some¬ 
times seemed, and then of a sudden there would come 
a flash of worldly wisdom, a self-possession that held 
him almost in awe of her. Queer kid, anyway—and a 
fascinating little devil, no matter what her mood. 

“You mean it?” he asked. And, as Polly nodded 
to assure him, he burst into delighted laughter and 
went toward the bottle, holding the slipper like a 
glass to be filled. 

Although she laughed, too, Polly watched him with 
a keen light of observation concealed behind her glance. 
There was an increasing tension, moreover, in her 
every movement; as if some effort or ordeal lay ahead; 
but she concealed the tension behind a casual manner 
of the lightest ease. 

“You’re quite sure you didn’t see ‘Ashes of Desire’?” 
she asked. For Rutherford, unknown to himself, was 
playing the villain’s role almost line by line as it had 
been played in that picture; as though she were the 
director, and he an actor, Polly was putting him 
through the part, step by step, even to the slipper- 
and-champagne scene; he was as much the puppet on 
her wire as she was, at times, on Boswell’s. 

But although he did not realize all this to the full, 
he groaned at her insistent shop talk. “Yes, I’m 
sure!” he declared. “And I’m sure, too, I never shall!” 
If only Polly would remain the Polly of a minute 
before, and forget Miss Pierpont! 

He had filled the slipper with the sparkling amber 


258 


POLLY PREFERRED 


wine, and now he came back across the room to her, 
balancing it with care lest the contents spill. 

Polly, watching him, continued her reminiscence. 
“That was the loveliest bit in it where he drank her 
health out of her slipper. The villain did it with 
such charm. Let’s have music, too!” she burst out 
impulsively. ‘‘Wine, woman, and a phonograph!” 

Tripping across to where the handsome instrument 
bided in its mahogany case, she turned on a record. 
A waltz suddenly tinkled forth—luring, merry—then 
slower, growing dreamy—light as a fairy’s wing— 
poignant, now, in its sweet sadness. Polly took up the 
strain as the instrument gave it forth—she sang, at 
first softly, then with a swelling voice—and, as she 
sang, she danced. 

In and out danced Polly, winding her way among 
tables, chairs, all the rest of the furniture. She tripped 
more lightly than a breeze—than the thistledown on 
the summer air. Her long auburn hair floated about 
her as she danced—her fluttering white draperies 
floated, too—she was air, she was motion, she was 
a spear of grass on its stalk, she was the spring zephyr, 
the bough on which a bird alights, stirring it. She 
was every dream come true—but a dream just beyond 
the reach of Joe Rutherford. 

Still clutching the slipper filled with champagne, he 
followed her. He, too, wove his way in and out among 
chairs and tables. He hummed a gruff accompani¬ 
ment to her sparkling song; he muttered a basso pro- 
fundo as the rhythm swayed slow and dreamy. Just 
beyond him she seemed to trip on—and—on—on, 


MOONLIGHT 


259 


forever, like a will-o’-the-wisp. She was there, he had 
reached her—and then with a flit and a toss she was 
off, as ever, uncaptured. And Joe, like one who dances 
bewitched to the music of Black Magic, came help¬ 
lessly waltzing after, trying to hold the slipper safely 
balanced while he followed, madly, this tormenting 
will-o’-the-wisp. 

A long, loud brrrrr of the door-bell broke in upon 
the dance. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE SLIPPER TELLS THE TALE 

“Shhhh!” Joe whispered sharply. “There’s the 
belli” 

But Polly seemed oblivious of both the ringing and 
his warning. She continued to dance and to sing, 
even raising her voice to quite a high pitch. Then, as 
if realizing afterwards that he had spoken, she paused 
and inquired casually: 

“What bell?” 

“The front door bell!” Joe was tightened with 
nervousness. This might be no joke! 

“Was it, really?” Polly seemed insanely casual 
about the matter. Didn’t the kid realize- 

“Then turn the light out!” she proposed, and he 
followed her suggestion, flinging the room into dark¬ 
ness, except for the moonlight, now almost gone. “If 
they don’t see the light, they’ll go away!” Polly said 
calmly. 

But through the darkness the phonograph went on, 
tossing off its waltz measures gleefully. It seemed 
human, like a malicious person who wouldn’t be 
squelched, bound to make mischief. 

Joe groped, stumbled in his effort to reach it. 
“Can’t you stop that infernal thing?” he whispered 
hoarsely through his gropings. 

260 



THE SLIPPER TELLS THE TALE 261 


Polly reached the instrument and fumbled about it 
busily, but still it kept up its now-lively tune, which 
seemed to Joe’s misery and alarm to grow louder with 
every passing second. Good heavens, what if- 

“Sorry,” said Polly, fumbling and fiddling with the 
mechanism. “I can’t seem to find the little business 
you switch it off with.” And, strange to relate, she 
was as calm about it as if the door bell had not rung 
a long and imperative summons—as if she didn’t in 
the least dread someone’s entrance, didn’t mind being 
discovered here at midnight in darkness. Entirely self- 
contained, she merely observed—“Sorry!” quite as 
casually as if she had trodden on a toe. 

With a stumble and a plunge, Joe reached the 
phonograph where it stood beside the arch. “Break 
the damned thing, then!” he cried. “Here, I’ll fix it!” 
And he fell upon it as upon an enemy in ambush. The 
phonograph gave a cry, a gasp, and fell silent. 

And through the darkness came Polly’s serene voice, 
continuing reflectively: 

“I’ve seen this situation a dozen times in the movies. 
Let me see, what did they do in ‘Ashes of Desire’?” 

Joe was wild with alarm and perplexity. “For 
heaven’s sake, keep quiet a minute!” he cried hoarsely. 
But the imperturbable Polly seemed never to hear 
his warning. 

“Oh, I know!” she suddenly recollected. “The girl 
hid in the bath! Which way is the bath?” she in¬ 
quired, and, although she was hidden in the darkness, 
he could see vividly in his imagination the saucy up- 
curling of the lips with which she put her mocking 



262 


POLLY PREFERRED 


questions. She must have lost her wits, to keep on 
monkeying like this in the face of genuine peril! 

“This isn’t a joke!” he said gruffly, reaching her 
through the blackness. Together they stood there, 
waiting, listening; there was a dead silence; then once 
more that long, imperative brrrrrrr of the door bell. 

Once more Joe decided that the girl must be crazy; 
for she seemed not in any way to grasp the over¬ 
whelming danger of her situation. Instead of being 
terror-stricken, the only natural thing for her to be 
under the circumstances, she went on with her remi¬ 
niscences of movies, apparently revelling in the dra¬ 
matic thrills which were called to memory. 

“In ‘Written in Blood’,” she observed, “the heroine 
shoots the heavy man and flees into the night. Trouble 
with that is, I haven’t any gun.” 

Plainly, she could not be impressed with the truth 
of the situation. She behaved like an incorrigible 
child. “Look here,” he said, “you run into the garden.” 
Better get her out of this, any way he could. “If 
you’re careful, you can get down to the garage en¬ 
trance and slip out without being seen.” 

Polly demurred. “But they’ll know some girl was 
here!” she raised objection. 

He fairly snorted with fury at her stupidity. “But 
they won’t know it was you!” he cried and then low¬ 
ered his voice to an angry whisper. “My God,” he 
said, “don’t you see that if you’re found here with 
me your screen career will be ended? You wouldn’t 
be worth another dollar!” 

Joe thought in terms of dollars and cents—even in 


THE SLIPPER TELLS THE TALE 263 

the hour of his greatest infatuation. He was as 
fully infatuated as it lay in his power to be, but he 
was incapable of reaching a state of mind in which 
monetary values were wholly absent. The practical 
consideration now rose uppermost. 

“All right, if you say so,” she yielded, and turned 
toward the arch that gave upon the garden, about to 
follow his instructions. But at that moment a crash 
was heard in the direction of the hall, where the 
visitor was waiting to be admitted. The inference was 
that he—or she—didn’t intend to wait any longer. 

“But if it’s a burglar,” whispered Polly, “and he 
murders you, then they’ll track me and I’ll be accused. 
That was the plot of ‘One False Step.’ ” She seemed 
to relish the plots that she was conjuring up as a 
child relishes a tale of adventure or ghosts; she almost 
smacked her lips over the thrill of them. 

Joe’s patience, never extensive, was worn out. “Won’t 
you please run?” he implored with only partly sup¬ 
pressed anger. After all—Polly couldn’t be a fool! 
She must know her own danger. Evidently the pleasure 
in tormenting him was greater than her fear. 

“I can’t,” she replied, amused. “But I’ll hop!” 
Polly in one slipper was a rather helpless Polly, and 
there seemed little possibility of recovering the missing 
member of the white satin pair in the darkness. The 
sound of her departure could be heard—a painful 
sound—hop, hop, hoppity-hop, like a child playing hop¬ 
scotch. She must have bumped into every piece of 
furniture on her way. Not like Polly to be so clumsy, 
even in the dark—one might have expected that airy- 


264 


POLLY PREFERRED 


fairy little personage to find her way lightly under any 
circumstances. Strangely, Polly seemed bent upon 
making all the noise and general disturbance that it 
lay in her power to make! Why the dickens, wondered 
Joe, couldn’t she beat it—just sneak out, quietly, and 
no more delays? 

As the last of her hops faded in the distance the 
door was burst open, and a man’s authoritative voice 
boomed out : 

“What’s the idea of sitting in the dark, Mr. Ruther¬ 
ford?” 

At the same instant the visitor found the switch, 
and the light of the lamp shone out, illuminating the 
room and its occupants. 

Rutherford faced the intruder, a middle-aged and 
dominant person who looked him over without flinch¬ 
ing. 

“What the devil do you mean, breaking into my 
house like this?” shouted the possessor of the bunga¬ 
low. 

“I’m Mrs. Rutherford’s attorney—Farelly, my 
name is,” the other announced calmly, and his manner 
took possession not only of the bungalow, but of the 
situation as well. 

Another visitor now followed Farelly from the hall 
where the bell-ringing had preceded the crash. The 
second was no other than Sophie Rutherford herself. 
She was the same neatly-tailored, cool and efficient 
person of the year before, when Joe’s proclivities were 
so frankly discussed by her in the chat with Kennedy. 
No doubt she was living up to her early belief, that 


THE SLIPPER TELLS THE TALE 265 


“the surest test of one’s social standing is whether 
one treats infidelity as a tragedy or a comedy.” At 
least her appearance now would bear out the doctrine. 
She was completely poised; she entered as easily as she 
might have entered the room in which an afternoon 
tea was being held, herself an invited guest. She 
came forward deliberately, passing Farelly where he 
stood, taking up her position in the center of the 
loggia; here she drew up, as it were, looking about 
with interested and thorough inspection. 

“This seems to be rather complete,” Sophie observed 
at length, having taken in every detail of the laid 
supper-table, the bottles at hand, the open cigarette 
box, the silk evening wrap which Polly had cast off. 
“Only Miss Pierpont herself is missing,” Sophie con¬ 
cluded. 

Joe stood facing the two, gritting his teeth in a 
blind and helpless fury. The veins on his forehead 
showed heavy and dark. 

“What do you mean—‘Miss Pierpont’ ?” he de¬ 
manded, struggling to maintain his role of accused 
innocence. “What the devil are you talking about?” 

Earelly’s eye lighted upon a white satin trifle that 
lay where it had fallen on the floor. It was a very 
small trifle—only a scrap of satin and leather, and a 
tiny towering heel—but, for all its wee daintiness, it 
was a most significant trifle. The lawyer held up 
Polly’s slipper in full view. 

“You’ll hardly deny there’s been a lady here!” he 
cried. “In fact this looks like a rather good bit of 
evidence!” 


266 


POLLY PREFERRED 


There was a dead silence. All three stood dumb, 
staring at the little white slipper as if hypnotized by 
it. So small a thing could mark the climax of a pretty 
large drama. 

Sophie broke the silence, and her cool tone, her 
tranquil expression, had not deserted her. “Hadn’t 
you better ask that friend of yours to step in here 
a moment?” she proposed to her attorney. 

“Yes,” Farelly answered. “We’ll need him at the 
trial.” He went back to the outer door where he 
and Sophie had entered, and he was heard to address 
a third visitor. “Come in here, Baker!” he called. 

Joe folded his arms and assumed an air of vene- 
mous irony. “Quite a party!” he remarked. “How 
many more?” 

Nobody bothered to reply. Farelly returned with 
the third visitor—young Baker, the reporter whom 
Polly had so suddenly summoned to a conference at 
dinner a few hours earlier. 

Farelly led in the reporter as if introducing him 
to an interesting event. “Here’s a front-page story 
for you, Baker,” he said. Apparently he highly 
relished the idea of thus advertising his client’s mis¬ 
fortune upon a daily paper’s front page, and that 
client showed no sign of objecting. In fact, hadn’t 
she proposed bringing Baker upon the scene! 

“Is this man a reporter?” demanded Joe. 

The reporter came forward with imperturbable 
ease. “How do you do, Mr. Rutherford,” he said, as 
if his host had welcomed him to the house. “Baker— 
of the Gazette .” 


THE SLIPPER TELLS THE TALE 267 


Joe showed his teeth like an animal at bay. “Well, 
now you’ve got your evidence,” he said to the three, 
“will you please go? Only, let me warn you, Sophie, 
you’d better not make any insinuations that may 
reflect on Miss Pierpont!” He turned to his wife as 
he spoke, and uttered the words savagely. 

Sophie maintained her matter-of-factness, and re¬ 
plied to him with tranquil assurance. “I received an 
anonymous note warning me that Miss Pierpont would 
be here with you tonight,” she stated straight in the 
face of his warning. He flinched for an instant, but 
not noticeably. At once he shot back: 

“It’s a damned lie! And if the Gazette dares to 
print anything that might injure the Polly Pierpont 
pictures-” 

But his threat was never finished. For at that 
moment a sweet voice was heard at the arch that gave 
upon the garden, an appealing voice that cried out 
tenderly: 

“Joe!” 

And as Rutherford, turning to look, groaned “Oh, 
my God!” the others turned, too—to see Polly stand¬ 
ing there, the picture of sweet solicitude as she gazed 
upon Rutherford—Polly, the sylph, slim and filmy 
and white—Polly, hopping in with one shoe off and one 
shoe on, quite after the manner of Diddle Diddle 
Dumpling, My Son John. 

She flung back the mass of auburn locks that still 
tossed in a billowy stream down her bare shoulders. 
“I couldn’t leave you to face it all alone, Joe!” she cried 
with touching tenderness. She met Sophie’s eyes as 



268 


POLLY PREFERRED 


she looked about at the group. “Mrs. Rutherford, 
don’t look at me like that!” she implored. “It was 
my first” false step!” 

Joe groaned again. “Well, you’ve fixed everything 
fine now!” he cried. As he said it, he turned fiercely 
upon his wife. 

Polly rushed between the two with a melodramatic 
gesture, flinging out her hands like a heroine of the 
stage. “Stop!” she cried theatrically. “Would you 
strike your own wife?” 

Young Baker, who had been observing the whole 
drama with detached interest, and amusement tweak¬ 
ing the corner of his mouth, now broke in. 

“Well—I must get on back to the office,” he said. 
“It’s too bad about all this, but that’s life,” he re¬ 
marked, as if apologizing for doing his duty which he 
conceived to be the reporting of all that life might 
offer in the line of news. “And life is newspaper 
business,” he concluded. He started toward the door. 

Joe detained him, however. 

“Here, wait a minute, Baker,” he called out. “Say— 
it’s worth a lot of money to me to keep this thing 
out of the papers-” 

But the young man did not permit him to go any 
farther. At once he became solemn, an air of im¬ 
peccable virtue sat upon his youthful countenance. 
One might as well have offered a bribe to a marble 
statue of Conscience. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rutherford,” he replied to Joe’s 
unfinished offer, and, with a bow of icy austerity, Baker 
departed, Joe at his heels. 



THE SLIPPER TELLS THE TALE 269 


“You’d better listen to reason-” Joe could be 

beard sputtering, as he accompanied Baker into the 
hall. The sound of his urgings, of Baker’s cold re¬ 
fusals, came back in broken and hushed utterances. 

Sophie Rutherford now turned to Polly where she 
stood on one foot. And, amazingly, the two women 
sighed a simultaneous sigh of relief as after a long 
hard strain, and smiled straight into each other’s 
eyes—a smile of the fullest mutual understanding and 
friendship 1 

“It was splendid of you, Miss Pierpont!” Sophie 
said heartily. “Thank you for helping me so!” 

Polly gave a little nervous laugh. “Oh, but I didn’t 
only do it for you, you know!” 

She crossed to the chaise longue where Farelly had 
dropped her slipper, and picked it up. She slid her 
foot into it, withdrew it with a disgusted shake, as a 
cat withdraws a fastidious paw from sudden damp¬ 
ness. 

“Oh dear, this shoe is soaking!” she murmured plain¬ 
tively. “And I always catch cold if I get my feet 
wet. But I s’pose adventuresses gradually get used 
to that.” 

“Shhhh!” Sophie warned her, for Joe, having failed 
in his effort to hush Baker’s report, was now re-enter¬ 
ing the loggia. 

He came in, looking straight at Sophie. This was 
war, open and declared, his gaze said. She met his 
gaze with her imperturbable calm; for seconds the two, 
husband and wife, held each other’s eyes and the look 
said all that words were inadequate to express. Then, 



270 


POLLY PREFERRED 


with a deliberate step, Sophie walked across the room 
and passed out, Farelly following. Polly and Joe 
Rutherford were once more alone together. 

Suddenly Polly’s nerves gave way. She had, for 
hours, been strained to the tensest pitch; she had been 
playing a role that called for such cleverness, such 
self-possession, such genuine acting from start to 
finish as the screen had never demanded of her and 
never would. She had been obliged to keep her wits 
at their sharpest, to be ready for each turn of events. 
She must lead Joe on, must hold him off; must so 
manipulate events that all the pre-arranged climax 
would work out perfectly. Her hair down her back, 
her slipper wet with champagne, the sound of music, 
dancing and laughter, the darkened room—all this had 
been carefully planned with Sophie and her lawyer, 
but to carry the plan out took more skill than Polly 
knew she had. 

From the moment when, that afternoon in the office, 
she had cried to Jimmie, “I think I see a way!” Polly 
had toiled without ceasing on her deep-laid plot. She 
had inveigled Joe into giving her this supper; she 
had held a hurried but important interview with Joe’s 
wife. Somehow she had contrived to win Sophie over to 
her scheme—that was the hardest part of her task, 
and she had accomplished it. So convincing was Polly 
in her loveliness and her earnestness that she had made 
even a doubting wife believe in her to the full, and 
this indeed was a triumph. A complete understanding 
between the two women had been the result of the inter¬ 
view; Polly showed Sophie how they could each play 


THE SLIPPER TELLS THE TALE 271 


into the other’s hands, for each had her own object to 
serve; the lawyer had been hurriedly reached, and he 
had agreed in full to the scheme. And then came 
evening, and Polly went forth to play her strange part 
of adventuress, that Sophie might have the evidence 
needed to threaten a divorce suit—and Polly, freedom 
from her contract. Just how far the little game was 
to be kept up, was their mutual secret. 

Polly had made good. She had played her part to 
perfection, she had brought the drama to its full 
climax. But now she gave way to a burst of hysterical 
laughter, long and uncontrolled. Nerves claimed their 
own. 

44 What, in heaven’s name, is there to laugh at?” Joe 
snarled angrily. 

Polly was departing, her cloak on her arm, but she 
paused an instant in the doorway. 

44 I was just thinking,” she said, 44 that, after all, Joe, 
I was safer with you than you were with me l” she 
cried—and was gone. 


CHAPTER XX 


UPHEAVAL 

In the main office of “Polly Pierpont, Inc.” the 
following morning Morris, proudly arrayed in the 
abbreviated trousers which declared his profession, 
sat absorbed in the news of the day. Morris paid 
little heed to a newspaper, beyond scanning it for an¬ 
nouncements of new films; he was now engrossed in 
them, and so deeply that he jumped when Kennedy 
entered from an inner office—the one which Bob Cooley 
had recently occupied. 

“No news of Mr. Rutherford?” Kennedy inquired 
rather anxiously. 

Morris put down the paper. “No sir—not any.” 

“Punny,” observed Kennedy, and his brow knotted 
itself as he thought over a puzzling matter. As usual, 
it seemed to be up to Kennedy to do something about 

these scrapes of Joe’s—but this time-! He had 

helped him out often, had seen him through safely, 
but there was a limit, Kennedy said to himself. He 
started back toward the private office. 

“Say, what’s the matter, Mr. Kennedy?” Morris de¬ 
manded. He knew well enough that something unusual 
was in the air, and Morris held a firm conviction that 
everything pertaining to the company of “Polly Pier¬ 
pont, Inc.” needed his master hand. 

272 



UPHEAVAL 


273 


“You’ll hear soon enough,” Kennedy tossed back 
to him over a shoulder. 

“Ain’t Mr. Boswell decided what he’s goin’ to do?” 
Morris might be partially in the dark, but at least 
he knew that there was a rumpus on this morning, that 
Rutherford hadn’t showed up and that there were 
serious rumors concerning him, and concerning the 
fortunes of the company. He knew, too, that Boswell 
had been on his high horse again as a result, and had 
threatened to leave. 

Kennedy threw back one more remark as he dis¬ 
appeared through the door. “Not yet,” he replied 
to Morris’s question concerning Boswell. “Don’t let 
any of the people make up,” he instructed the boy. 

“They ain’t.” Morris rose, walked about vaguely, 
and took another chair. Things were very disturbing 
to Morris. There was the feeling of an impending 
earthquake beneath the feet of the “Polly Pierpont, 
Inc.,” and what was a boy to do about it? 

Jimmie entered cautiously, looked about, then closed 
the door behind her. “Where’s Miss Polly?” Morris 
demanded of her. No sign of his adored star as yet 
this morning, and here it was after ten o’clock, and she 
always so pyompt! He almost attacked Jimmie with 
the question, as if he suspected that young woman of 
having his idol guiltily concealed about her person. 

Jimmie cast him a scornful glance. “How should I 
know?” she snapped. Jimmie’s heart underneath was 
pure gold, but her temper—the top layer of it—was 
sometimes a bit crusty. And if ever the time was 
suitable, this was it—with everything upset, with 


274 


POLLY PREFERRED 


everybody hanging on by their bootstraps and waiting 
for the catastrophe. 

Morris wasn’t to be snapped at, he’d have her know. 
A mere member of the cast—and he, assistant director! 

“You always come to the studio together, don’t 
you?” he demanded. For it had been Polly’s habit to 
pick up her old friend as the car passed her door, and 
to whirl her over to the studio each morning. “If I 
get overweight, it’ll be your fault, Polly!” Jimmie 
scolded affectionately. “I need the walk to keep down 
me embongpong. But you’re makin’ me a loafer like 
yourself.” 

Jimmie wasn’t going to take any of that Morris 
kid’s sass. “Oh, I managed to get here by myself 
today,” she flung at him as she started for the dress¬ 
ing room. Sometimes she wished she could slap him, 
he was that impertinent in his manner! Never really 
said anything he shouldn’t, but he was always salaam¬ 
ing like a worshipping heathen before Polly’s shrine, 
so that his respect seemed to have run out before it 
got around to anybody else, was Jimmie’s opinion. 

Morris gave instructions with an air of importance. 
“Well, don’t make up,” he said. 

This was something of a surprise to Miss Jimmie. 
She knew a great deal concerning the present situa¬ 
tion that Morris didn’t know, but she hadn’t expected 
this . 

She turned back from the door that led to the dress¬ 
ing-rooms, and came toward him. “Stopped work, 
have they?” she inquired. 

Morris was delighted to have any information to 


UPHEAVAL 


275 


give, but he was still at sea himself as to the underlying 
meaning of the whole mix-up. “Yeh—somethin’s hap¬ 
pened,” he told her, “but I can’t find out what it is. 
Boswell, Kennedy and Jones are all havin’ a con¬ 
ference—in there-” he pointed toward the office 

that had been Bob’s. His voice dropped. “It’s aw¬ 
ful. They’re actin’ like somebody was dead,” he 
whispered. 

“They’ve got reason to,” Jimmie replied. She pursed 
her lips tight and looked upon him with an air of 
wisdom and secrecy. 

“Say, tell me—what’s it all about, Miss Jimmie?” 
Morris begged. He couldn’t stand this mystery much 
longer—he’d bust of worry and unhappy curiosity, 
he knew he would, he said to himself. And, in some 
obscure way, it all concerned his Miss Polly! 

But Jimmie only pursed her lips the tighter in token 
of secrecy. Plainly, she wasn’t going to tell what she 
knew. “You wait till the Evening Gazette comes out, 
Morris,” she said with an air of patronage. Children 
should know all in good time, her manner proclaimed. 
Then, “Mr. Cooley hasn’t been here today, has he?” 
she asked. 

“He’s quit.” Morris knew that much anyway! That 
news was a day old. 

“Yes I know,” Jimmie rejoined. Evidently she was 
looking for more recent news. “But I been lookin’ 
for him since daylight,” she observed. 

“I got him to come over to my dump last night,” 
the boy told her. 

Jimmie eyed him with interest, and drew near.. “Oh, 



276 


POLLY PREFERRED 


that’s where he was! No wonder I couldn’t find him,” 
she exclaimed with surprise. 

“I figured he’d be feelin’ blue at losin’ his job,” 
Morris went on to explain. “But say, he was so happy 
I thought he was goin’ right off his nut. And every 
little while he’d call up Miss Polly—but she was out 
somewheres-” 

“Do you know where he is now?” demanded Jimmie, 
who had been giving close attention to this important 
narrative and the light that it cast upon Bob’s state 
of mind. 

“He went over to the Famous to see about a job, 
and he wanted me to tell Miss Polly he’d be here right 
after.” 

“Well, when he comes, I want to see him.” It was 
Jimmie’s turn now to give instructions. “It’s im¬ 
portant,” she declared with an uptilted head and still 
more secrecy. “Something Polly wants me to tell 
him.” She went toward the door. 

“Somethin’ about what’s goin’ on here?” Morris 
called out in an agony of suppressed curiosity. 

“Something I ain’t crazy to spring on him,” Jim¬ 
mie condescended to reply. 

“Why?” 

“Because I ain’t got no idea how he’s goin’ to take 
it.” Jimmie paused, reflecting with anything but 
pleasure on the task that lay ahead of her. Perhaps 
at that moment she, like Kennedy, wished that other 
people would attend to their own domestic and love 
affairs. She added, 

“Bob don’t carry a gun, does he, Morris?” 



UPHEAVAL 


277 


Morris’s eyes bulged from their sockets, he craned 
his long gooseneck in desperate curiosity. “Is it 
something that’s goin’ to make him sore at you?” he 
asked. 

“God knows, I hope not,” groaned Jimmie. “But— 
well—if I don’t come through it alive, tell ’em I met 
death like a man.” Saying which with another de¬ 
spairing groan, Miss Jimmie vanished into the dressing- 
room corridor. 

Morris was left standing in the middle of the office, 
his eyes still bulging from their sockets, his mouth 
gaping open wide with wonder. This was altogether 
too much for him! He’d be crazy in a little while if 
somebody didn’t tell him what it was all about! 

“I’d like to know what’s struck everybody!” he cried 
out loud although he was alone in the room. He 
seemed to be demanding an explanation of the very 
walls themselves—and they remained silent. “I wish 

__ ?5 

Morris’s demand was broken off abruptly by the 
entrance of Joe Rutherford from the street. Morris 
turned, stared at him, gaped more widely yet with 
wonder, and stammered out a “Good morning.” 

“They’re all waiting for you, Mr. Rutherford,” he 
said. 

“Who?” Joe wore the appearance of one who has 
suffered from a particularly bad night—a person who 
has not slept at all, in fact. His brief word of inter¬ 
rogation came nearer to the yap of a cross terrier 
than to the sound of a human voice. Morris jumped, 
although, in that office, he was used to many moods! 



278 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Mr. Boswell and Mr. Jones and Mr. Kennedy,” he 
stated politely in reply to the yap. 

“Oh!” Joe thought it over. Then, 

“Morris, do you know where the Evening Gazette 
office is?” he inquired less tartly. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, go down there and get me a copy of today’s 
paper.” 

Morris never hesitated to offer information. “It’s 
an afternoon paper, and ain’t out as early as this,” 
he said. 

“Well, wait there, and grab the first one that comes 
off the press and get it up here, quick!” Joe gave the 
order sharply and turned on his heel, starting toward 
the door of his own office. 

“Yes, sir,” responded Morris, obediently. He went 
first to the studio, however. 

Just then the street door opened again, and Bob 
Cooley entered. He paused in the doorway, seeming 
to be taking in all his surroundings. Only a day since 
he had departed from tbose same surroundings, a volun¬ 
tary exile. Had the intervening day given him a certain 
detachment, the attitude of the looker-on, so that he 
could stand off and observe, like a Rip Van Winkle, his 
early haunts? 

Joe turned back involuntarily at the sound of the 
opening door and confronted Bob. 

“Good morning, Mr. Cooley,” he said. He assumed 
the air of one who is lord of his own domain, and he 
greeted the visitor with condescension. 

“Good morning,” Bob rejoined briefly. 


UPHEAVAL 


279 


“Did you want to see me ?” Joe went on with a show 
of his old insolence. 

Bob held silent for a moment, looking him in the 
eye. Then he said in a quiet tone. 

“I called to see Miss Pierpont.” 

“Oh!” Joe whirled about and was setting off once 
more toward his own office, when Bob detained him. 

“Mr. Rutherford!” he called. 

Joe turned back indifferently, but Bob came forward 
now with determination, crossed the room, and squared 
himself in front of the older man. “Do you know,” 
Bob asked him, “about last night?” He held Ruther¬ 
ford’s eye with his own. 

“Do I know about it?” cried Rutherford. He didn’t 
want any insolent questions and he wouldn’t have them! 
“Do you know about it?” he demanded. 

“I mean,” pursued Bob, “do you know what Polly said 
to me?” 

Joe groaned. “It’s all I can do to remember what 
she said to me!” The remembrance had cost him a 
night’s sleep, and he was wondering, just now, whether 
his head was a football, an ostrich egg, or a human 
member. Judging by the sensations in it, a football 
seemed the most probable—and a football in the midst 
of a scrimmage. 

Bob paid no attention to Joe’s remark, but went on: 

“Well, last night something happened!” 

“I agree with you!” Rutherford heaved a sigh de 
profundis. 

Morris, entering from the studio, paused in the 
doorway as he came upon these two in conversation. 


280 


POLLY PREFERRED 


He was usually all arms and legs, but at present he 
was all ears. Yerily, they seemed to stretch forward, 
in his desire to listen. His curiosity and anxiety had 
kept him on tenterhooks all the morning; now, at 
last, his intuition told him, was a chance to learn what 
all this upheaval might mean. Everybody bustling 
about with secrets; the work called off; the star not 
appearing; suspense hanging like a thunder-cloud in 
the air. It was becoming more than Morris could 
endure. No wonder he halted in the door, stepping back 
just far enough to remain unseen while his ears greed¬ 
ily snatched at all that Bob and Rutherford might 
have to say. 

The former went on, still ignoring Joe’s sighs, 
groans, and observations. “And although I’ve left 
this company,” Bob was saying, “I have the right now 
to look after her—and I don’t want you to have any¬ 
thing to say to her except in the nature of business. 
If you do, you and I will have trouble.” He laid it 
down like an ultimatum; Bob Cooley had never cringed 
before Joe Rutherford, and he was farther than ever 
from doing it now. He had his rights at last, his 
full rights, and he was asserting them—not arrogantly, 
as Joe himself would have done in the same case, but 
with all the courage of his own convictions—and of 
Polly’s kiss. 

Joe showed his teeth, a way he had when driven to 
a last resort of ugly temper. “Is this some game you 
two are playing?” he demanded. 

Bob paused. He hadn’t been quite sure, before, 
just how much he was going to tell at present; but he 


UPHEAVAL 


281 


decided now to let the fellow have it—all of it—right 
in the face, 

“I think you’d better know about it,” he said delib¬ 
erately and frankly. “I love Polly. And last night 
I found out she loved me.” 

Joe stood for seconds looking at him without a 
word. All the experience of the night before swept 
over his memory—his blissful arrangements for the 
little supper, the entrancing way in which a filmy fairy 
had sprung up there in his own bungalow, as at the 
waving of a wand—moonlight, music, the fairy’s danc¬ 
ing—they all swam giddily before Joe’s eyes. And 
then the denouement —shock, interruption, crashing 
glass, darkness and turmoil, forced entrance, and, in 
the end, a fairy that flitted away with mocking laughter 
and left him to nurse a whirling, aching head—his 
entire universe in upheaval, himself landed in the midst 
of dire dismay. ... It wasn’t a pleasant remi¬ 
niscence. As he stood silent, his mouth drew back in 
a grin of irony—irony at his own experience. Polly 
loved Bob. 

“Oh! You found that out last night, did you?” 
Joe’s tone writhed as he uttered the words. 

“I know we can’t get married,” young Cooley went 
on steadily. “She’ll live up to her contract. But if 
I ever hear that you have tried to flirt with her,” he 
continued, enunciating every syllable very distinctly, 
“I-—shall—break—your—neck!” He stated it calmly, 
merely as if it were a clause in an ordinary contract— 
but a clause that he intended to have thoroughly un¬ 
derstood. 


282 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Rutherford did not reply, but turned again, start¬ 
ing toward his own office. Bob followed to the door. 
He didn’t intend to have any mistake made in this 
matter! His hand fell in a firm grasp upon Ruther¬ 
ford’s shoulder, and even in that grasp Joe sensed the 
biceps of this vigorous, clean-living young chap— 
sensed what that muscle might mean if it chose the 
course of defense. Joe—past forty already and with 
a set of arteries that registered past fifty owing to his 
years of dissipation—had no appetite to be up against 
that sturdy young arm. 

“Don’t forget what I’ve said!” Bob reminded him, 
and still the grasp held. 

Rutherford cringed under it, and slipped out like 
a whipped dog. “No—I’m thinking of it!” he fairly 
whimpered as he disappeared, and Bob was left with 
a grim smile upon his lips. 

Morris was discouraged. Here he had been listening, 
but he hadn’t yet fully made out the situation, and 
now the conversation was at an end. He came for¬ 
ward to Bob, determined to put his question squarely 
and find out at last. 

“Will you tell me what’s goin’ on?” he demanded 
baldly, and added “for the love of Mike!” 

Bob looked at the boy with sympathy. He knew 
how stout his allegiance was, and he could see the 
trouble that filled his face. 

“Not for the love of Mike, but for the love of Polly, 
Morris,” he said gently. “Where is she?” 

Morris’s face took on a far deeper anxiety, for he 
had looked to Bob to solve his problem and tell him 


UPHEAVAL 


283 


of his idol’s whereabouts, and now Mr. Cooley con¬ 
fessed that he didn’t know them, himself! 

“I don’t know where she is!” Morris cried. “She 
ain’t been here. And the work in the studio is all 
stopped—and there’s something in the Evening Gazette 
—and—oh, yes, Miss Jimmie has been lookin’ for you 
since daylight.” All the confused facts that were 
puzzling Morris’s brain now tumbled forth in a troubled 
heap for Bob’s inspection. 

Anxiety rose in Bob’s own face at this report. 
“Nothing has happened to Polly, has it?” he cried. 

“I don’t know,” groaned Morris. “But it don’t look 
kosher, to me.” 

Bob’s first thought had been for Polly, but he now 
recalled the statement that Miss Jimmie had been look¬ 
ing for him. Moreover, Jimmie might be able to throw 
light upon the perturbed darkness. She had ever a 
motherly eye out for her adored Polly, just as in the 
old days when the little girl from Brooklyn had been 
out of a job and had had to depend upon nickels and 
slides for her lunch. “Just because you’re a famous 
star with an apartment dee luxxy and a car to wait 
on your hoppin’, ain’t no reason why you don’t need 
somebody around with an eye out for you—you need it 
more’n when you ate in an Automat!” Jimmie often 
told her ward. 

“Where is Jimmie?” Bob now asked, and as Morris 
replied that she had gone to her dressing-room, he 
shot off in that direction to see what he could learn con¬ 
cerning Polly. 

Morris went to the door of the office whither Kennedy 


284 


POLLY PREFERRED 


had retired to commune with his own problems. “Hi, 
Mr. Kennedy!” he shouted. 

“Yes?” came back Kennedy’s reply from the room. 

“Mr. Rutherford’s here and Pm goin’ on an errand,” 
reported the youth—and started, with a frantic un¬ 
tangling of his long legs as he sprang toward the street 
door. He hadn’t gone at once, as Joe had ordered; and 
now his legs must make up for lost time, whether they 
got tangled or not. 

Kennedy returned to the main office at once, hearing 
this piece of news. “Where is Mr. Rutherford, Mor¬ 
ris?” he asked. 

“In his office, telephoning.” 

From the studio beyond, Jones and Boswell now 
entered. Things were growing more and more tense, 
and Morris had to leave the center of activities! 

“Where are you going?” Kennedy asked him. Mor¬ 
ris might be a convenient person to have around, he 
thought, if hurried errands must be done. 

“To the Gazette!” Morris shouted importantly. 
“He’s in an awful hurry to see the evening paper.” 
He vanished, with a plunge, into the street; and just 
then Rutherford himself entered from his private office 
and faced the other three men. They looked at him— 
and in silence. Joe’s appearance, indeed, was food for 
contemplation. He was so much the worse for wear 
as to cause any acquaintance a start. No orgy through 
which he had ever passed had left him quite as jaded 
as the past night’s experience—the party that had not 
come off. He was a battered and thoughtful Joe, and 
a very much beaten one; but he made an attempt to 


UPHEAVAL 


285 


carry off the situation with somewhat of his old debo^ 
nair manner. 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, trying to be 
brisk. “Morris said you wanted to see me.” Still 
they continued solemnly to gaze upon the wreck of the 
insolent authority that had been Joe so short a time 
before. 

“I should say we do,” Kennedy at last found voice 
to respond. 

Joe picked up the remark with a greater attempt at 
briskness, and came forward as if it were all a mat¬ 
ter-of-course in the everyday run of business. “What 
can I do for you?” he inquired. 

“What can you do!” returned Boswell. “What have 
you done to us—that’s the point!” He clasped his 
hands and rolled his eyes ceilingward in an effeminate 
gesture of despair. 

Jones approached Joe. “If you’d only told me last 
night who you were having for supper-” he began. 

Boswell interrupted, breaking in with a burst of in¬ 
dignation. “Yes!” he cried. “You positively assured 
me the girl was no one I knew!” 

Joe groaned and clasped his head. “Oh, what’s the 
use of going into all that?” he said miserably. “The 
thing’s done—it’s a waste of time to talk about it.” 
His opportunity for evasions, lies, and excuses was long 
past, he well knew that; he had been shown up in the 
light of three sixty-Watt bulbs; and he didn’t intend 
to make futile explanations and apologies. All he 
asked was that the subject be dropped. These men 
weren’t going to be any the better off for accusing him 



286 


POLLY PREFERRED 


now the thing was done—for rubbing it in. Nor was he. 
If only they would drop the matter, and let him do like¬ 
wise ! 

But Boswell, at least, had no idea of dropping it. 
Woman-like, he insisted upon keeping up his re¬ 
proaches. “But what I keep thinking over and over 
again is—why did you do it—why did you do it—why 
did you do it?” he cried dramatically. He was un¬ 
consciously playing the role of an emotional heroine, 
as he usually did in any crisis. 

Kennedy turned upon him with disgust. “Oh, shut 
up, Boswell!” he snapped. “That isn’t going to help 
any!” 

“But it’s what I keep thinking, just the same!” Bos¬ 
well reiterated, and rocked in his despair. 

Jones was the first to come forward with a con¬ 
structive suggestion. Even though he was an artist, 
Jones sometimes showed a surprising amount of horse 
sense, his friend Kennedy had observed. 

“Couldn’t you stop the Gazette printing the story?” 

Boswell took up the idea with eagerness. “Yes— 

with all your money and influence, I should think-” 

he began, but Kennedy clipped him off impatiently. 
“Boswell!” he cried, stopping another emotional burst, 
and then turned to Joe; “And what about your wife’s 
naming Polly?” he asked baldly. 

Boswell didn’t intend to be squelched, and again he 
threw himself into the conversation before Rutherford 
could reply. “Yes!” he cried. “Your own wife cer¬ 
tainly wouldn’t-” 

Jones, as well as Kennedy, had reached the point 




UPHEAVAL 


287 


where he couldn’t endure this any longer. “For heav¬ 
en’s sake, Boswell!” he protested. If only they could 
get the matter thrashed out rationally, could arrive at 
some practical course of action, without all these hys¬ 
terics, all this making of a scene, for all the world like 
a woman- 

“Oh, why shouldn’t I speak?” he shouted now. “It 
means more to me than to any of you. I’ve been giv¬ 
ing up my whole life to this enterprise—and then to 
have Rutherford smash it in this way! Oh, Ruther¬ 
ford, how could you?” he implored. It was indeed true 
that Boswell’s professional career hung upon Polly’s; 
and, more than with any of the others, his eggs were 
in the one basket. He may have indulged in tempers, 
he may have resigned more than once when in high 
dudgeon; but in reality Boswell had cast his lot en¬ 
tirely with “Polly Pierpont, Inc.” and that company’s 
disaster meant his, to the fullest degree. 

“If you’ll only keep quiet-” Joe growled. 

“I shan’t say another word!” Boswell interrupted 
him to declare. 

“Thank you. I can’t get anywhere with the Gazette 
editor,” Joe now found opportunity to explain. “He’s 
passed the buck to that damned reporter—and I’ve 
been trying my best to locate him. I offered my wife 
any settlement she asks if she’ll leave Polly out of the 
case, but her lawyer just phoned me he didn’t think 
there was a chance.” 

Kennedy’s head sank despondently. “So it looks as 
if our gold mine would go up in smoke!” he said hope¬ 
lessly. 




288 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Jones added his moan to the chorus. “And this new 
picture that up to now has cost about forty thousand 
dollars is just so much junk!” he said. 

Boswell could no longer suppress himself. “And 
after all my work!” He almost sobbed it out. “Oh, 
I could just sit right down and cry!” 

Joe bit back an oath—this scene of Boswell’s mak¬ 
ing was the last straw, and, after the scene of the night 
before, was a little more than his nerves were going 
to stand. He crossed the room, and spat his words 
out into Boswell’s face: 

“Well, do that, will you? Only go and cry out¬ 
side !” 

The director rose from the chair into which he had 
sunk, gloomily. “Yes, I can’t stand any more of 
this. I’ll go and discharge some actors—that will be 
a slight relief!” And he vanished to play the role of 
executioner. This was frequently a source of relief 
to Mr. Boswell’s high-strung temperament; when one 
of his headaches was running its course, the company 
would pass the question, “Whose head in the basket 
next?” And, upon such occasion, Jimmie might be 
heard to hum under her breath, while she flourished 
an imaginary sword, 

My object all sublime, 

I shall achieve in time, 

To make the punishment fit the crime, 

The punishment fit the crime! 

The other men, now left by themselves, drew to¬ 
gether. “Now perhaps we can discuss this thing,” 
Kennedy said. But Jones retorted: 


UPHEAVAL 


289 


“I can’t see anything to discuss. If Polly is named 
as co-respondent in a divorce suit or if this newspaper 
story comes out, her pictures aren’t worth a nickel.” 
But before he could go farther, Henry, the factotum, 
entered and announced the Gazette’s reporter: 

“Mr. Baker.” 

“Ah!” breathed Kennedy. 

Baker came briskly into the room, and addressed the 
group in a cheerful manner, as one satisfied in the con¬ 
scientious performance of a duty. “Good morning, 
gentlemen,” he greeted them. 

“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Baker,” Kennedy re¬ 
sponded. They were all glad enough, indeed! Hope 
rose. Now, perhaps, with their concerted efforts, they 
might get this thing hushed up before it was too late. 

“Won’t you sit down?” Jones added his own cor¬ 
diality to Kennedy’s. 

“Have this chair,” urged Kennedy. 

But Baker, standing in their midst, refused the solic¬ 
itous invitations. “Sorry—can’t stop,” he replied. 
He turned to Rutherford. “I called,” Baker said to 
him, “because I got word from the office that you were 
looking for me.” 

“Yes,” Joe replied. “Your editor gave me to under¬ 
stand that the killing of this story was up to you.” 
No chance for the young reporter to pass the buck 
himself! 

Baker smiled with a deprecating glance. “Well, that’s 
flattering,” he said easily. “But there’s really no 
way to stop it.” He didn’t seem disturbed about the 
matter, either—these young devils, these reporters, 


290 


POLLY PREFERRED 


never cared whether they wiped a man’s fortune or a 
woman’s reputation off the slate with one stroke of a 
typewriter, damn them, Joe said to himself. 

Kennedy broke in, “Well, print your story,” he said, 
“Say what you want to about Mr. Rutherford—but 
don’t give the girl’s name. Blacken his character all 
you like, say he-” 

“Hold on a minute!” shouted Rutherford. “Remem¬ 
ber, will you, it’s my character you’re disposing of!” 

Jones seized upon his friend’s proposed course. “It’s 
not a bad idea at all,” he cried, endorsing Kennedy’s 
plan. 

Baker shook his head with finality. “It’s no use, 

gentlemen-” he was sadly assuring them. But the 

conversation was swept off its feet at that point, and 
the group stood dumb, not one man in its midst able 
to say another word. For, with a small creak, the street 
door opened—and Polly stood among them. 




CHAPTER XXI 


“a scrap of paper” 

Although the self-possession of every man present 
had deserted him at the entrance of the star—the ob¬ 
ject of their stormy discussion—that little lady showed 
no lack of the commodity herself. She swept with her 
usual graceful, light movement to the center of the 
room, nodding a greeting to them all. 

“Good morning, Mr. Baker,” she said to the visitor. 
And to the others, “Good morning,” smiling on each 
in swift succession. “I overslept—I was up rather late 
last night-” 

Baker broke in. “I’m in a hurry,” he told them. 
“I’ll say good-day.” And his eyes and Polly’s met in a 
fleeting glance. 

Kennedy couldn’t let the reporter go without one 
more attempt to save the day. “And there’s no chance 
of keeping Miss Pierpont’s name out of the story?” 
he pleaded. He was ready to go on his knees to the 
young devil if it would rescue the situation in time. 

But Eddie Baker again turned to the marble statue 
of Conscience on a pedestal that he had been the night 
before. The honor of the nation might have hung upon 
his full and accurate reporting of the news, his man¬ 
ner implied. 

“None,” he said to the beseeching Kennedy. “I sym- 
291 



292 


POLLY PREFERRED 


pathize with Miss Pierpont, but my duty to my paper 
comes before anything.” 

And upon this a most astonishing thing occurred. 
For Polly—the star, whose entire future hung in the 
balance—now held out a hand to the reporter, and 
shook his with a clasp of high regard. 

“I understand, Mr. Baker, and I don’t blame you at 
all,” she told him. 

Baker added an interesting and important item of 
information at this point. “Another thing—it’s too 
late,” he told them all. “The first edition is on the 
press now. Good morning.” 

“Good morning!” Polly cried cheerily after him as 
he made his departure. But the others stood dumb. 
Now, indeed, it was no use urging or bribing. It was 
too late. 

Kennedy turned in his despairing rage upon the star. 
“You don’t seem to grasp this situation, Polly,” he bit 
out. “Your screen career is over.” 

And the amazing star almost smiled upon him as 
she replied in the sweetest voice: 

“Yes, I just can’t realize it. How lucky I am,” 
she went on with even more sweetness, “to have my con¬ 
tract.” 

A sudden bolt of electric shock seemed to strike the 
gentlemen assembled. “What?” shouted Jones and 
Kennedy in one breath. “Contract?” 

Polly continued suavely, “At least that’s salary for 
the next four years.” She smiled in pleasant satis¬ 
faction at the reassuring thought. 

Kennedy and Jones stared blankly at her as she 


“A SCRAP OF PAPER” 


293 


went on. They were numb as well as dumb, and their 
faces were blanks. 

“I said to myself when I woke up this morning,” 
observed Polly, “ ‘That’s one comfort, Polly, you 
needn’t worry about money.’ ” She seated herself in 
the most comfortable chair. 

Boswell suddenly rushed into the office again, his 
hair wildly tossed where his fingers had been raking 
it, his scarf awry, every sign of frantic excitement writ¬ 
ten upon his appearance. “It will take over six thou¬ 
sand dollars to pay the salaries!” he shouted. “We are 
obliged to give-” 

At this juncture he suddenly caught sight of Polly; 
his resentment toward her seized upon him, a mighty 
wrath, and all he could ejaculate was, 

“Oh—you!” 

He caught his breath, gasped, choked with rage; 
then, once more finding words, he cried to her as if 
he were uttering the direst imprecation; 

“You—you naughty girl!" 

Kennedy observed, with biting irony, “And what do 
you suppose she says about salary?” 

Jones took up the words, in explanation: “That 
her contract calls for five hundred a week for the next 
four years!” 

Upon learning this interesting fact, Boswell glared 
at Polly for silent seconds, being beyond speech; then 
he burst into hysterical laughter, rocking in dreadful 
mirth. 

“Oh—oh—” he gasped between bursts. “This is 
beginning to get fun—ny—really!” 



294 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Jones crossed to where the star sat, in his new role 
of practical man of business. “Let me see your con¬ 
tract, Polly,” he requested with politeness, but de¬ 
termination. Jones intended to sift this matter down 
and find out if there was any means of escape. 

Polly made a little gesture that seemed to say, “How 
useless, really!” “You all have one exactly like it, 
haven’t you?” she inquired. 

“I’ll get it,” Jones responded, and went to Ruther¬ 
ford’s office, where the meeting of the stockholders had 
been held and where important and private business was 
always transacted. 

Joe approached her. His lips were drawn to a 
straight line of hatred and resentment. His pale, 
weary face, haggard with lines from the night’s ex¬ 
perience, showed every trace of his ugly nature that a 
face could show. As he spoke to Polly now, his words 
seemed almost hisses. 

“So that’s the answer, is it?” he said to her. “You 
had it in for me ever since I met you in the Automat. 
Then Cooley told you about his stock, and you thought 
of this plan to wreck the company.” 

Kennedy was listening, and there was something in 
this that he didn’t understand—some link in the chain 
of events that he had missed. 

“Plan?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Joe replied to him. “She sent that anony¬ 
mous letter that brought my wife to the bungalow!” 

Boswell burst in hopefully. “If you can prove that 
-” he began. 

“I can’t prove it but I’m sure of it,” Joe said. 



“A SCRAP OF PAPER” 


295 


Boswell spread his hands in a gesture of futility and 
despair. “Well, what good does it do if you can’t 
prove it?” he mourned, and turned for sympathy to 
Jones, his collaborator in art, who now returned with 
the contracts. 

“I thought last night that Cooley was in on it, too,” 
Rutherford continued. He had been ready to accuse 
anybody of anything; even now the whole world, in¬ 
cluding his friends and partners, seemed conspiring to 
his undoing, although he was beginning to understand 
the details of the situation better than he had on the 
previous night. 

“Oh, no,” Polly responded. 

Joe shrugged scornfully. “I know he wasn’t, now, 
because of what he said to me.” Joe had very vivid recol¬ 
lections of all that Cooley had said to him—it was 
still fresh in his memory, and likely to remain so for a 
long time to come. 

Polly showed interest. “Have you seen him today?” 
she asked. On one or two points in all this chaos, 
even Polly herself may have been in the dark. Bob’s 
whereabouts, as well as his reaction to the state of 
affairs, were not yet fully known to her. 

“Yes—saw him fifteen minutes ago,” Rutherford re¬ 
plied. “And he didn’t know anything about last night.” 

“No.” Polly knew that. 

“No,” Joe repeated after her. And he added, with 
profound meaning and a laudable appreciation of 
young Cooley’s biceps: 

“If he had, I’d probably be on my way to the under¬ 
taker’s.” 


296 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Why?” inquired Polly calmly. But beneath her 
calm, she very much wanted to know why Joe thought 
so. 

Sardonically Joe replied: “Because he loves you 
so.” He turned to the others, and added: “And last 
night she told him she loved him so!” With a snort 
he whirled about on his heel. Fate had got the better 
of Joe—much the better of him; but he wasn’t going to 
repress his opinion of that same Fate, which, just at 
present, seemed to assume the form of a slender young 
woman with auburn hair and large gray-blue eyes, to 
say nothing of a caressing and musically soft voice. 

Kennedy contributed a gloomy observation. “He’s 
apt to murder you both,” he told them. 

In this, Boswell saw a possibility of saving the day. 
“Well, if she’s murdered, her salary will stop!” he 
offered with a faint show of cheer. It really seemed 
quite the only way that presented itself to dispose of 
that five hundred a week for the next four years. 

But as Bob once more appeared, returning from his 
conference with Jimmie in the dressing-room, Boswell 
saw fit to curtail his remarks—and those of the others. 
Although Rutherford was the only one who had sampled 
the Cooley biceps, there was a general feeling that 
this vigorous youth was a person whom it was just as 
well not to go too far with. 

“Look out, here he comes!” Boswell warned them. 

Bob halted an instant in the door—only an instant 
—taking in the group. Then he came directly for¬ 
ward, between Polly and Joe. He turned to the latter, 
and addressed him openly. 


“A SCRAP OP PAPER” 


297 


“When I saw you a few minutes ago, I didn’t know 
about last night,” he stated succinctly. 

He turned, then, to Polly. “Jimmie has just given 
me your message,” he said. 

Now Polly had instructed Jimmie so to explain the 
situation of the night before that Bob would not mis¬ 
understand any references he might hear to her having 
been at Joe’s bungalow. She was to make it clear to 
him that it had been all a plot to conquer Joe; any 
misconstruction was to be forestalled by Jimmie’s de¬ 
livery of her message. But at the moment that Bob 
stood there, tersely making statements to her and to 
Joe, Polly felt that somehow he hadn’t grasped the 
thing. He looked so austere that she trembled, fear¬ 
ing Jimmie had not made him see that it had all been 
a hoax—and if he should not see- 

“But you don’t understand, Bob!” she said. 

“Yes, I do!” he replied. “I understand everything.” 

Joe assumed an air of the deepest interest, and his 
mouth took on its most sardonic twist. “You do?” he 
exclaimed. “Tell me!” 

Bob’s austerity, which he was struggling to main¬ 
tain, gave way for the moment. He had been so deeply 
moved at hearing Jimmie’s report that he had been 
obliged to assume his sternest manner, or he would have 
broken down completely, and have run forth into the 
office to snatch Polly up in his arms before them all. 
Even now he fought for the grim self-command he had 
imposed upon himself—and barely kept it. 

“Oh, Polly, it was a horrible thing to do!” he burst 
out. “And yet it was wonderful of you-” 




298 


POLLY PREFERRED 


He pulled himself together. This affair must be 
handled firmly, and as a matter of business. He mustn’t 
give out—not now. He had something to say to all 
these men, and he was going to say it, and make them 
remember it, too. He swung about, facing Boswell, 
Kennedy and Jones where they stood nervously gath¬ 
ered together, awaiting what was to happen next. 

“Do you know what this little girl has done?” he 
cried to them all. “She has thrown away her chance 
of being a world-famous celebrity—because I mean 
more to her than her career. She told me she’d quit if 
I did. But I made her promise not to. This was the 
only thing she could do.—What are you looking like 
that for?” he broke out, for signs of incredulity and 
scorn were showing upon the faces before him. He’d 
make them believe it before he got done- 

“You believe that’s why she did it, don't you?” he 
bellowed savagely. And at once the signs of incredu¬ 
lity and scorn fled from the three faces, and the sancti¬ 
monious air of three well-whipped boys spread over 
them. 

“Oh, yes!” cried Boswell quickly. 

“Yes, indeed!” echoed Kennedy. 

“We believe it—yes, yes!” hurriedly put in Jones. By 
some subtle process, whether thought-transference or 
something more muscular, the impression seemed to be 
taking hold—the impression that Bob Cooley was not 
to be trifled with. — * 

He now turned upon Rutherford, and proceeded 
with his catechism. 

“And you know it wasn’t for anything wrong, don’t 



“A SCRAP OF PAPER” 


299 


you?” he demanded. “Or because she cared about 
you—you do, don't you?" 

And Rutherford’s whole air suggested nothing on 
earth so much as that of a beaten cur that crawls off 
with its tail between its legs, as he replied fervently: 

“You bet I do !” 

Bob settled his shoulders now into a position of 
ease and relaxation. “That’s lucky,” he said with 
satisfaction. He had wrung an admission of faith in 
Polly out of every one of the four, and he felt that a 
worthy task was well accomplished. Never could he 
have let the matter rest without such an admission, af¬ 
ter the risk that Polly had run—and for his sake alone. 
He must have this much settled, at least—and it would 
have been settled at the cost of his fists, if necessary. 
There wasn’t a man in the group whom Bob Cooley 
couldn’t have wiped up the floor with, if necessity had 
demanded a floor-wiping; he was glad to leave that 
task to the scrub-woman, but he wouldn’t have hesi¬ 
tated if worse had come to worst. 

He once more squared himself to continue. “Now,” 
he said, “what are you going to do about it? Isn’t 
there any way to stop a scandal?” 

“We’d like to know how,” groaned Boswell. 

He had an idea, and it was ready to spring. “An¬ 
nounce our engagement, for one thing-” he began. 

Polly broke in. “Bob!” she cried. “Is this a pro¬ 
posal?” For, although there had been a confession of 
love, the affair between them had been left in the de¬ 
liciously, perilously vague state of a confession and 
nothing more—that state in which lovers’ fates so 



300 


POLLY PREFERRED 


often hang, and sometimes to the undoing of the Little 
God’s best intentions. 

He didn’t admit any vagueness about it, however. 
“And we’ll be married right away!” he concluded, and 
his eyes answered her question. 

Boswell saw a path ahead. “That’s a splendid idea!” 
he cried joyfully. 

But Kennedy had not followed him. “Oh, what good 
will that do?” he growled. He might be subdued by 
Cooley’s youthful virility, cowed, even; but he wasn’t 
going to give up his grouch. That, at least, he might 
indulge in to the end of the chapter. 

Boswell scorned his dullness. “Why, it will break 
her contract—for one thing,” he replied. Boswell was 
almost cheerful now. 

“That’s right!” Jones assented with ardor. 

But Polly didn’t intend to let them off easy. She 
might forgive them for the trouble they had caused 
her —but their mistreatment of Bob rankled bitterly in 
Polly’s heart, and she intended to worry them yet 
awhile, if nothing more. She turned to Bob. 

“But I can hold them to the contract,” she told him. 

“You’ll hold them to nothing,” he retorted, hot in 
his independence. “I’ll take care of you now.” 

Joe Rutherford was not slow to seize upon the re¬ 
lease that lay in Bob’s promise—release for him, from 
the heavy brunt of the debt which would be his to bear. 
His vanity was bruised and battered, his infatuation 
for Polly likewise—and these two hurts had kept him 
so sore ever since last night that his interest in the 
almighty dollar had been partially eclipsed. But if 


“A SCRAP OF PAPER” 


301 


Joe could rescue himself financially, the vanity would 
soon heal, and the infatuation be forgotten. 

“Then it’s understood our agreement is cancelled?” 
he demanded with eagerness. 

“I suppose it will take a lawyer to do that!” Polly 
retorted cheerfully. 

“Nonsense!” cried Boswell who didn’t intend to lose 
either time or money. “That only means running up 
expenses for a lot of ‘herebys’ and ‘whereases’.” For 
the once Boswell was showing himself the coolest and 
clearest-thinking member of the company. He no 
longer wrung his hands and ruffled his hair. He was 
taking hold of the problem with efficiency and initiative, 
and showing the others their way out. He crossed to 
the table; on it lay the contracts which Jones had put 
there; and, one by one, Boswell tore up the documents. 

“I’ll show you how to cancel it! There—there—-there 
—there—that’s broken!” he cried. And the long 
sheets of paper, upon which all the terms of “Polly 
Pierpont, Inc.” had been set forth in formal language— 
the five hundred a week, the division of stock, the clause 
that prohibited the star from matrimony as well as 
other personal indulgences—all of these agreements so 
laboriously drawn up, so zealously entered into, went 
fluttering in small, useless bits about the floor. The 
end of “Polly Pierpont Inc.” lay in those scattered 
bits—the demise of a great company, with a greater 
future. The contract had become but “a scrap of 
paper.” 

Bob watched the bits flutter to the floor. Then he 
took up another phase of the subject. 


302 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“You act as though you thought it would be diffi¬ 
cult to stop this story!” he said. What was the mat¬ 
ter with them all, anyway, that they acted as if her 
name was killed? 

“Not a chance,” Jones gloomily assured him. “Baker 
has just left here.” Jones, like the others, was thank¬ 
ful to be released from the contract; but it wasn’t very 
cheerful to see his prospects going up in smoke. 

Bob started at the name. “Who did you say— 
Baker?” 

“Yes,” explained Kennedy. “The reporter who 
caught them at the bungalow last night.” He, too, 
was dull with depression; the worst calamity, that of 
paying Polly a salary for nothing, had been escaped. 
But the future of the “Polly Pierpont” pictures had 
been a rosy one, and it had vanished from the horizon 
like a brilliant glow at nightfall. 

Bob’s question pressed keenly. “Was it Baker of 
the Gazettef” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

Bob was frowning in perplexity. “There’s some¬ 
thing queer about that!” he declared. “Wait till I 
telephone him.” He hurried out to the telephone. 

Kennedy turned to Polly. “Does he know Baker?” 
he asked with fresh interest. And Polly’s quiet reply 
threw only partial light, but it stirred the curiosity of 
everyone present, for it suggested that Polly knew 
more than she was telling: 

“Yes,” she answered. “We both know him—quite 
well.” 

But there was no time for further discussion of 


“A SCRAP OF PAPER” 


303 


Baker. For at that moment in tumbled Morris, his 
legs in a mix-up of haste, a bundle of papers bulging 
from under one arm: 

“Here’s the Gazette , Mr. Rutherford!” he shouted. 
“Look at them headlines 1” 


CHAPTER XXII 


INNINGS 

For an appalled moment nobody could open the pa¬ 
per, although Morris stood in their midst, holding it 
out. Then Kennedy took the copy that Morris was 
flourishing, and the news-bearer passed a like copy to 
each of the other men. The boy was breathless, al¬ 
most hysterical with excitement; surely, every man 
of the four thought, this story must be worse than 
even their blackest dread had painted it. As he held 
the paper before them, they all caught sight of a large 
picture of the star “played up” conspicuously upon 
the front page. 

And then—Kennedy took the bit in his teeth, opened 
the sheet—and read. He read aloud, his voice halting 
with astonishment at almost every syllable. The faces 
of each showed a varying shade of astonishment, and 
only the sound of Kennedy’s puzzled and amazed voice 
could be heard in the room. 

“The Gazette prophesies,” he read, “that Polly Pier- 
pont has a future as a film star that is unequalled by 
any ingenue on the screen today!” 

The others, listening, followed the words upon their 
own sheets. There they stood, plain black and white, 
below the wide-spread picture of their star. They 

couldn’t believe it. Jones scowled, thinking himself 
304 


INNINGS 


305 


tricked somehow, and nosed on further through the 
paper. 

“Is that all there is about her?” he demanded. 
Surely, there must be worse farther on! 

“No—dere’s lots more,” Morris informed him. “Two 
colyums of it. Want to see it, Miss Polly?” he cried, 
handing her another copy of the evening news. 

But to everyone’s utter amazement, Polly replied 
sweetly, “No, thanks, Morris. I read it yesterday.” 

“Goodness gracious!” ejaculated Boswell, and in 
those two words he had expressed the emotions of the 
entire group. 

Still more surprises lay in store; for at this juncture 
Henry entered and deferentially announced, “Mrs. 
Rutherford!” 

They all swung around to face the street door, 
through which the smartly-tailored, cool and collected 
Sophie was now making a brisk entrance. She was 
entirely mistress of herself; in the light of events the 
night before this was almost incredible; but if Joe 
had ever been able to shake her poise to some extent, 
that time was past. She knew him thoroughly, and 
she had accepted the analysis of him that her clear in¬ 
sight had forced itself painfully to face. 

“Good morning,” Sophie said pleasantly to the group 
in general. A formal bow, and a greatly embarrassed 
one, greeted her from each of the gentlemen present— 
except her husband. Joe faced her savagely, without 
a movement or a word. 

She turned to Polly with a greeting that was posi¬ 
tively affectionate. “Oh, hello, dear, I came to see 


306 


POLLY PREFERRED 


you,” she cried, and the two women smiled at each 
other with comprehension and fondness. 

“ ‘Dear!’ ” rose the men’s astounded chorus. When 
two women, meeting as these two had met, could use en¬ 
dearing terms and smile at each other like loving sis¬ 
ters, then was the earth standing on its head and the 
heavens falling about their ears! 

Sophie went on, addressing Polly, and her air was 
of the warmest intimacy. “I’m going East this after¬ 
noon,” she explained, “and I wanted you to know that 
Mr. Farelly had arranged everything with Mr. Ruther¬ 
ford’s lawyer.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Polly. “Then you won’t want me 
for co-respondent?” 

Sophie smiled tenderly upon her as upon a beloved 
little sister. “I shouldn’t ask for a more charming 
one,” she assured her. “But I’m to have the custody 
of my boy now—and that’s all I was fighting for.” 

The two women had come to a definite understanding 
the day before, to the effect that Polly was to play 
the part of co-respondent far enough to let Sophie’s 
lawyer obtain all the evidence needed—she was to be 
found in Joe’s bungalow at midnight, just as she had 
been found, and this story, with the discovery of supper 
table, slipper, and other darkly suspicious details, were 
to give Sophie all needed material upon which to 
threaten suit. At the same time, the company would 
gladly release Polly from further pictures, since a star 
with a dingy reputation was no star at all; and Polly 
would therefore be freed, if she chose, to follow Bob 
to whatever fortune might be his. Polly didn’t care; 


INNINGS 


307 


Bob in poverty was better to her than wealth with him 
left out. And she must work out the results of her 
plot as circumstances helped her to mold them. 

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “I’ve just cancelled my 
contract!” She assumed an air of the deepest regret. 
No one guessed her next move. 

“Have you, really?” Sophie cried. “I’m sorry, 
dear-” 

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” Polly responded now, 
as if trying to console herself. “I can easily make 
another with someone else,” she added, and, con¬ 
ferring in the warmest friendliness, the two women went 
off arm in arm. 

But her words, as she was departing, had been over¬ 
heard. “I can easily make a contract with someone 
else.” Every man present knew it, only too well. Polly 
had been the sensation of the year in screen circles; 
not a company in the country but would snap her up 
the first chance it got—now that there was no reason 
for not doing so. For at last the astonishment at the 
swift turn that affairs had taken was wearing off— 
instead of gaping, dumfounded, at the Gazette's front 
page story, the gentlemen who had formerly held stock 
in “Polly Pierpont, Inc.” were now grasping the vast 
truth. Polly was not ruined for the screen as they had 
assumed. Instead of being a bit of drift, cast upon 
the shore by tossing events, she was more than ever an 
incalculably valuable asset. Instead of her reputation 
being swept away at one fell swoop by a newspaper’s 
mud-flinging, she had been pushed forward even more 
conspicuously into the limelight than before, by that 



308 


POLLY PREFERRED 


same paper’s columns of eulogy. Eddie Baker had 
indeed covered his story—but from quite another 
standpoint from what they had expected. And Polly, 
who, only a few minutes before, had been a bit of worth¬ 
less stock to be cast into the dump-heap—that same 
Polly had now leaped like shares in a gold mine when 
a fresh and richer vein has been suddenly opened. 
Polly—why, everybody would want Polly now, if they 
hadn’t before! Polly was a princely fortune, Polly was 
wealth untold! 

Bob, who had solved his perplexity in a brief chat 
with his friend Baker over the telephone, now returned 
to the group. He saw the scattered copies of the 
Gazette. 

“Oh—you’ve seen the paper-” he observed. 

“Yes,” responded Jones fiercely, “and she’s tricked 
us out of a fortune!” 

“The hussy!” cried Boswell. 

Bob wasn’t going to stand that. He crossed the 
room and brought up eye to eye with the director— 
and Bob’s eye was a most ferocious one at that moment. 

“The— what, did you say?” he demanded. 

Boswell jerked away in terror. “Don’t you dare 
to touch me!” he screamed. 

During these few minutes since the tide had so over¬ 
whelmingly turned, Joe Rutherford had been doing 
some rapid thinking. He was once more becoming his 
old business-like self—perhaps largely due to the relief 
at finding that his domestic difficulties and the open 
scandal that had threatened were blowing over like 
clouds. Joe, in colloquial language, was chirking up. 



INNINGS 


309 


As Polly now re-entered the room he turned to her 
with a direct question. 

“Miss Pierpont,” he said, “I want to make a propo¬ 
sition to you—on a strictly business basis.” Bob 
couldn’t restrain an inward smile at that, nor could 
Polly. “You have beaten us,” Joe went on frankly. 
“We have a half-finished picture on our hands—would 
you consider renewing your contract with us if we 
gave Mr. Cooley his share of stock and appointed him 
managing director of the company?” 

As this proposal unrolled itself before Polly’s eyes 
her inward smile had expanded; but she kept a very 
straight face as she inquired gravely: 

“What shall I do about it, Bob?” 

“It’s no good unless they take out the marriage 
clause,” he told her firmly. Bob was ready to throw 
up a position, to bear up under the loss of his stock; 
but he would hold on to Polly like the proverbial 
drowning man on to the straw. 

Boswell, clutching his head in token of agony, now 
groaned: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, take it out!” Any¬ 
thing, Boswell said to himself, to bring this chaos and 
clatter to an end—anything to give his agonized head 
relief! He didn’t care whether the star married or 
not; he didn’t care who she married if she wanted to; 
let her acquire ten husbands if she chose, let her go up 
in an airplane, let her have the ceremony performed in 
the clouds—anything, so that his head would stop 
aching and his art for art’s sake be permitted to go on 
its way rejoicing. 

“Dear, dear, I’m as nervous as a cat!” he moaned. 


310 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“And my head’s getting worse every minute! And I 
haven’t taken a drop of coffee or tea for a week. If 
I had—they always make my head worse. But I’ve 
drunk nothing stronger than hot water with a little 

sugar in it, and I’m perfectly sure that couldn’t- 

It’s all this dreadful quarreling. Do settle the con¬ 
tract, for heaven’s sake, and let us get back to the 
string of pearls!” 

Somehow, although Bob had made no formal state¬ 
ment, it seemed to be assumed that he was willing. And 
as for the marriage clause which he had said must be 
taken out—that seemed a minor point to the rest of 
them! It was the only point that was really to be con¬ 
sidered seriously, in Bob’s estimate; but the others were 
concerned with the ups and downs of their own for¬ 
tunes, and if there was any way to rescue their bank ac¬ 
counts from destruction and put them on the high road 
to prosperity, they didn’t care a straw when, where, or 
whom Polly married. Only let her remain the dazzling 
center-stage success of “Polly Pierpont, Inc.,” and 
she could do as she liked while off the screen. 

“Then it’s agreed?” asked Joe quickly, ready to 
follow up his proposition with a hammer and nails 
that should fasten it down, and firmly. He didn’t 
intend to let this chance slip. Already the painful 
humiliation and the alarm of the night before were 
looming less huge on Joe’s horizon, in the face of grow¬ 
ing hopes of a financial nature. It would be many a 
day before he would forget the way Polly had played 
cat to his mouse—the cat triumphing; but money was 
money to Joe Rutherford’s heart. 



INNINGS 


311 


He pursued: “If you’ll come in here, Mr. Cooley, 
I’ll transfer the stock to you and throw in my office 
as well.” Joe was coming across handsomely, now that 
he was beaten. As managing director of the company, 
the major office was Bob’s due; and perhaps, moreover 
Joe had an idea that he wouldn’t enjoy being quite as 
much in evidence around the shop as he had been—be¬ 
fore he met his Waterloo. 

He turned to Kennedy. “You’ve got a reservation 
for the afternoon train, haven’t you?” Kennedy had 
arranged for a hurried trip from New York, allowing 
himself only time for the annual meeting of stock 
holders. Hollywood and its lure didn’t mean to Ken¬ 
nedy what it had meant—previously—to Joe. His 
nose, although young, was prone to attach itself to 
the grindstone. 

But the chaotic shifting of affairs was detaining 
him. “Yes,” he replied, “but since our mix-up, I’ve 
got to stay and attend to several matters. I can’t leave 
today after all.” 

“Well, give me your section. I can. . . . You 

don’t know much about women, do you, Owen?” Joe 
Rutherford suddenly asked. It seemed an utterly ir¬ 
relevant query; it was apropos of nothing that had 
been said; but underneath Joe’s question lay a deep— 
and a very amusing—wistfulness. He was thoroughly 
whipped, and he was no longer ashamed to show it. 

“Nothing!” Kennedy responded emphatically, and 
shook his ignorant head. 

Joe heaved a sigh. “That’s twice as much as I 
know!” he responded with a still more vigorous shaking 


312 


POLLY PREFERRED 


of his own ignorant head, and, plunged in profoundest 
reflection, the two old friends passed together from 
the room. They had settled their business affairs; and 
they were glad enough to leave the immediate manage¬ 
ment of the star to others. To follow the stars in 
their courses—or at least, this particular star—called 
for a deeper knowledge of astronomy than either of 
these gentlemen would ever possess—and they had the 
grace to admit it. 

Miss Jimmie entered from an inner door and crossed 
the office, on her way out to the street. “Here, where 
are you going?” Boswell cried with his old note of 
authority. He had forgotten his aching head, he had 
forgotten his hot water with sugar, he had forgotten 
all these squabblings and arguings and accusings and 
refutings that had darkened the sky for a day or two; 
if only he could return to his Count and Countess, his 
Meg and the string of pearls! Bossie was tyrannical, 
he was old-maidish, he was a bundle of idiosyncrasies 
and mannerisms and queernesses in general; but he 
was a rare director, having a keen instinct for true art 
in his work, and he spared himself no pains to bring 
about desired results. He was a slave-driver; but 
he drove himself quite as hard as he did any actor under 
him; and, after all, everybody agreed, Bossy was all 
right. He was already cheerful and energetic in the 
prospect of continuing his picture. And now, seeing 
one of his company about to depart for town, he hailed 
her imperatively, bound to let nothing hinder his 
work. 

“Come back here!” he shouted after Jimmie. 


INNINGS 


313 


“Can’t,” she told him over her shoulder. “Going to 
get that shampoo.” 

“Oh, no you’re not!” he retorted. “Go and get into 
your maid’s costume at once! Here, Morris— 
quick!” He was shouting his orders as of yore, 
causing everybody to “step lively” to keep up with his 
demands. “Go and tell the people to make up— 
hurry!” 

“Yes, sir 1” shouted the assistant director with equal 
energy, and he galloped off like a joyful long-legged 
colt who has been let loose in the pasture. Morris 
was in the seventh heaven again; all the clouds which 
had shadowed his adored star seemed to have passed, 
and no damage done; dark mysteries were clearing up, 
the sun was once more shining. Never did a happier 
boy tumble over his own arms and legs than Morris, 
as he set off to “knock up” all the company into fresh 
activity. 

“But I thought we were all fired!” Jimmie protested, 
halting on her way to the hair-dresser’s. A girl loves 
her shampoo as the drunkard loves his bottle, and it’s 
dangerous to interfere when she has set her mind on 
having it. 

Boswell, however, had no time to waste in either 
argument or shampoo. “Well, you’re hired again,” he 
stated abruptly, and began to shoo Jimmie as if she 
had been a flock of chickens. “Go along—go along—• 
don’t stand there talking!” he cried, driving her before 
him. She turned her back reluctantly upon the street 
that led to the hair-dresser’s. 

Jones came up—ready, too, for business. He was 


314 


POLLY PREFERRED 


heart and soul in his job of art direction, and he 
was as eager as Boswell to resume the work of putting 
over a successful picture. 

“Do you want the assignation scene next?” he asked. 

Boswell nodded a quick affirmative. 

“I’ll have it for you in half an hour,” Jones gladly 
promised, and dashed off to make ready. 

Jimmie waved a dramatic farewell to the door and 
her shampoo which was fading in the distance. “Back 
to the mines, boys!” she cried, and once more she set 
her face toward the dressing-room to remove her hat 
and return to maid’s cap and apron. 

Boswell turned to Polly, and his manner was con¬ 
ciliatory—for Boswell. “I rewrote that scene, Polly,” 
he said to her. “The one you didn’t like. I want to 
see if you like it now.” Never before had the director 
been known to submit his work in this humble manner 
to the star. He had plucked her from the obscurity 
of the chorus and had taught her all she knew, was 
Boswell’s belief, and she ought to be eternally grateful 
to him, and never attempt to dispute his authority. 
Any such attempt on her young part was inexcusable 
impertinence—or such it had been, only a day before. 
But this morning Boswell was anxious to please her. 

“Let’s leave it to the managing director,” she pro¬ 
posed, and turned radiantly to Bob. The very sound 
of the title was music in Polly’s ears! Oh, Bob had 
come into his own at last—and, with her aid, he had 
forced the others to their knees. She didn’t intend to 
crow out loud, but she could hear a very ecstatic crow 
down in the depths of her own happy heart. 


INNINGS 


315 


But Bob had many important details to attend to. 
This new arrangement must be clearly understood- 

“But I’ve got to see Rutherford,” he told her. 

“Please listen to it,” she begged him. She wanted 
his opinion to uphold her, if Bossy was going to be 
absurd again; and since the rehearsal of the day be¬ 
fore, she didn’t know what the director might do with 
his favorite string of pearls. 

“But this is business!” cried Bob. Would he never 
forget business for a minute? Polly found herself 
asking inwardly, just as she had so often asked during 
the twelve months that she had known him? Business 
always to the fore—the refrain that rang ever through 
his words, his acts, his thoughts. For the moment 
she forgot that something very different from business 
had controlled his actions when it came to what he 
would have called a “show-down”; that he had thrown 
away his entire prospects rather than sacrifice some¬ 
thing that lay closer to his heart. 

“Well—what if that is business?” she protested to 
him now. “This is me!” Smiling, she led him back 
in willing obedience. “Now tell us about the scene, 
Mr. Boswell,” she said to the director. Together she 
and Bob seated themselves on the settee to listen; 
business had been eclipsed at once, behind Polly’s 
wish. 

“Well,” began Boswell, “after the Count and Coun¬ 
tess are off, I have Jim telling Meg that he loves her.” 

Polly nodded with a delighted smile. “Oh, I like 
that,” she cried. “I think he’s improved it wonder¬ 
fully,” she said to the new managing director. 



316 


POLLY PREFERRED 


“Then,” Boswell went on, “dissolve into a garden 
scene showing Meg playing with a baby.” 

Polly gasped. “Isn’t the action getting a little— 
rapid ?” she protested. 

“Goodness, it isn’t Meg’s own baby!” cried the 
director. 

“Oh—I see!” 

Boswell continued. He did hope he wouldn’t be in¬ 
terrupted again by these stupid comments. Would 
people never learn to grasp these quick changes that 
he was fond of making, without demanding so many 
literal explanations? If a baby appeared on the screen, 
they wanted to know every detail about it—how much 
it weighed, was it dressed in pink or blue, and were 
mother and child doing well! Good gracious, the 
literalness of the human mind was enough to drive 
a devotee of art to suicide! 

“Now—as Jim stands there, looking at her,” he pro¬ 
ceeded, “I show a vision of the Count holding out the 
pearls—then fade into another vision of a little kitchen 
with Meg cooking Jim’s supper.” Boswell came proudly 
to his conclusion; he congratulated himself that he 
had achieved a triumph of art in this scene at length, 
and it had cost him many a bad quarter-of-an-hour 
to rewrite it. 

Polly smiled demurely into her lap. “It doesn’t 
sound so terrible,” she said, more to herself than to the 
others—in fact, Polly appeared to be thinking dream¬ 
ily, though out loud. But Boswell didn’t observe that 
she was absent-minded. 

“Terrible!” he cried indignantly. Her words seemed 


INNINGS 


317 


damning with faint praise,—“Not so terrible!” he re¬ 
peated indignantly. “What do you mean?” he asked 
her with a show of his old dignity. 

But Polly, roused from her reverie, cast him an 
apologetic glance that might have atoned for a far 
greater offence. “Polly could murder a man and make 
him thank her for it if she smiled at him while she was 
doing it,” was one of Jimmie’s remarks. “His last 
dyin’ words would be, ‘Smile again!’ ” 

“I wasn’t speaking about the picture,” she now 
said gently. “Please go on, Mr. Boswell—I didn’t 
mean to interrupt. You’ve done it beautifully.” 

With his indignation assuaged, Boswell continued: 
“Spoken title, ‘It isn’t pearls I want about my neck, 
but your strong loving arms!’ ” He paused, rolling 
up the manuscript from which he had been reading: a 
triumph of art, indeed, was this ending to the heart- 
throbbing tale of Meg. 

But two young pairs of arms over there on the 
settee had apparently taken it upon themselves to 
follow the hint thrown out by the sagacious Meg— 
Polly and Bob, their thoughts straying from the elocu¬ 
tion of Mr. Boswell, had gazed, for a moment, deep 
into each other’s eyes; and, as the reading came to an 
end, his arms slipped about her waist in a firm though 
gentle hold; and hers, slim and caressing, somehow 
found their way up over his shoulders. And, as Bos¬ 
well brought his reading to a triumphant conclusion 
and rolled the manuscript, he looked up—and saw. 

“My God, are you trying to play it?” he shouted 
in dismay. 


318 


POLLY PREFERRED 


Polly, her arms still about Bob’s shoulders, looked 
at the director with a laughing nod. 

“Yes,” she replied with mischief sparkling in her 
eyes. “But if there’s any directing needed-” 

“I’ll do it!” promptly declared the new managing 
director as his arms tightened their hold about the 
slim waist. 

Boswell stood still and gazed upon them, hopelessly 
dumb for the moment. Young human creatures were 
always a puzzle to Boswell. He never could see why 
they showed these strange proclivities. Why not con¬ 
fine themselves to art? For it was art for art’s sake, 
and a cup of hot water at breakfast, that ruled life to 
him. But somewhere in the eccentric heart of Crawford 
Boswell must have lurked a ray of sympathy—a dim 
recollection, perhaps, that he had once been a young 
human creature himself. For, as he looked, something 
uncommonly soft stole into his face; and at last he 
said : 

“I see! Excuse me!” 

And Polly and Bob were left alone, their arms still 
entwined. And nobody saw—except a little breeze, 
which at that moment sneaked in at the window, 
puffing a whiff of orange-blossoms at these young 
people by way of an impudent joke—nobody but the 
prying little breeze—saw his lips on hers. And the 
breeze never told. 


The End 






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